Theater of War: Act Four, Scene 1
by TOW
Summary: “Evil is unspectacular and always human; and shares our bed and eats at our own table.” W. H. Auden. And is now at Stalag 13.
1. Chapter 1

Act Four

Scene One

"Evil is unspectacular and always human; and shares our bed and eats at our own table." W. H. Auden. And is now at Stalag 13.

Certain characters have been borrowed with permission from the writings of Mel Hughes (_Dress Rehearsal_) and LaVerne Cash (_New__Beginnings_). If you are interested in reading those works, please email me.

Theater of War: Act Four was originally published as a digest-sized book zine in 2003. It is an amateur publication for the enjoyment of fans. The copyright covers only original material, and in no way intends to infringe upon the privileges of the holders of copyrights, trademarks or other legal rights for the _Hogan's Heroes_ universe.

Act Four, Scenes 1 and 2, thus far, is the last written Act in the HH saga. Eventually, there will be an Act 5 and an Act 6.

If you have any questions or comments about the stories thus far, feel free to email me. Thank you for reading.

* * *

Chapter 1

The war continued. The once seemingly invincible Third Reich was shrinking away. Hungary, Rumania, the Baltic States were no longer under German control. Soviet troops had made their merciless way into eastern Prussia, on their way to Berlin. In the West, the Allies were approaching the western bank of the Rhine. To keep the Allies from crossing that ancient barrier, bridge after bridge was destroyed or mined to be destroyed by the retreating Germans. The Allies held nearly a million German prisoners and cities inside Germany itself were awaiting invasion. Some of Hitler's staunchest supporters could see the coming doom, even if the Führer remained blind; Himmler and others were already planning to sue for peace on their own. And at Yalta, the Allies had decided on the Allied occupation and division of Germany — a decision that would have enormous, and unforeseen, consequences for Germany and Europe for decades to come.

Unimaginable numbers of people moved across the landscape — vast armies numbering millions of men, even greater numbers of refugees fleeing ahead of invading armies. Thousands of others were herded like cattle onto trucks and trains — slave laborers, men, women, children — sent away from the advancing armies, not for their safety, but rather for their destruction. Despite their losses, despite the advancing armies, the Nazi death machine kept moving, killing thousands. In spite of the certain death that awaited them if they were caught, or perhaps because of the probable death that awaited them at the end of the line, some managed to escape. Some like the gaunt, worn man with grizzled gray-black hair who had seized a momentary opportunity and fled.

He had staggered blindly through the dark woods, not knowing where he was going, only knowing that he had to keep moving. He had stopped thinking long ago; he was driven only by the need to survive. But even that need could carry him only so far. In the end, his malnourished, exhausted body could go no further. And he fell to the unforgiving ground, pale as death and as still, beside a road, as luck would have it, that led to a bridge, that led to another road, that led to a prisoner of war camp called Stalag Luft 13.

...

For a man who hated meetings, Colonel Robert Hogan was spending far too much time in them lately. Hell, he'd called this one, as he had most of the others he'd been forced to attend. And been forced to call. With the camp's population now at twenty-five hundred plus, he didn't have a choice. The days when he could pawn off administrative problems to the few other officers in camp were long gone. But if he couldn't avoid these meetings, at least he could keep them short. He and the four captains in the camp had been at this meeting for twenty minutes and they were nearly done.

"Okay," Hogan said, "that takes care of the work details. Martin, how's the food situation?"

Captain Edward Martin(1), a thin blondish man in his late forties, grimaced. "About the same, Colonel. We finally got a shipment of Red Cross packages yesterday. That's it."

"What about the supply truck a few days ago?" Hogan asked.

Martin made a face. "It didn't help. Half of the produce was inedible and the rest didn't look much better. Langenscheidt(2) is trying to work a deal with the local farmers — trade the inedible produce that can be used for animal feed or fertilizer for foodstuffs. The problem is the farmers aren't doing good either. It's been a hard winter and they don't have much in the way of stored provisions. And Hammelburg is in worse shape than we are."

"Which means?" Hogan asked.

"Status quo, Colonel. The Red Cross packages are our primary food source, except for potatoes. Makes for boring meals, but we're not starving."

Hogan nodded. "Not yet. Now for my bad news. Klink said we're not getting any more supplies or Red Cross packages." The captains looked at each other more grimly. "So, how long will our supplies hold out?"

Martin did a quick mental calculation. "Well, thanks to the supplies we got from Baumann's cache(3), the Red Cross packages that Klink husbanded, and this last shipment — and as soon as it gets warmer, we're going to have the fellas start food gardens; we can trade some of our coffee and sugar for seeds — I figure we can make it through the summer. Hopefully the war will be over before we get really hungry!"

Hogan smiled faintly. "Hopefully. Okay, that leaves our problem children. How are they doing? Mitchell?"

It was Captain John Mitchell's(4) turn to scowl. The camp's "problem children" were primarily newcomers, primarily infantry, with a low tolerance for Germans and authority, American or German. Mitchell, a tall, eagle-faced man with black hair, had an edge in his voice. "For the most part, they're just annoying, Colonel. Getting in front of others, walking into the middle of games, 'accidentally' tripping guys, stuff like that."

"How many are there?"

"Thirty to forty. And from what we can gather, they're pretty much confined to Barracks 79."

"Who's the barracks leader?"

"Sergeant Virgil Yeager."

"Yeager? Don't recognize the name."

"He's the guy who barreled into Klink when he first arrived(5). After the fire."

Hogan frowned at the memory. "How did he get to be barracks leader?"

Mitchell shrugged. "After he got out of the cooler, he started hanging around with the malcontents. Rumor has it he took on Chaykin(6) who'd been the barracks leader. Not that Chaykin was any prize either."

"We've been lucky for a long time, Colonel," Martin said. "Your extracurricular activities used up a lot of excess energy and relieved a lot of the boredom, especially in the early years. But now with the overcrowding and a lot of the new guys not really knowing or believing what's been going on, and the fact that most of those activities have been shut down, well, guys are getting antsy."

"And," Captain John Witton(7), a dark-haired American in an RAF uniform and now the senior captain in the camp, added, "the fact that conditions in this camp are much better than in other camps has helped exacerbate the problem."

Hogan raised a brow.

Witton smiled humorlessly. "Starving, sick POWs don't have the energy to cause trouble, Colonel. We have POWs who are in decent shape with energy to spare. They need an outlet. And for some, the classes, reading and sports don't cut it."

"Those are the ones that Chaykin and Yeager appeal to," Mitchell said.

"And, Colonel," Captain Jerry Warren(8), the youngest of the four, looked at Hogan evenly, "not everyone is thrilled with your relationship with Klink. Especially some of the newcomers."

Hogan could feel himself bristling, though he kept his voice even. "Even when that relationship makes things better for the camp?"

Witton nodded. "Some see it as making things better for you."

"But," Martin said hurriedly as Hogan's face darkened, "they're in the minority. A very small minority. The rest of the camp ignores them."

"Or ignores them as much as they can," Mitchell said. "As I said, right now, they're just annoying."

"I think I'll have a talk with them," Hogan said.

The four captains looked at each other.

Hogan raised a brow. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes, sir," Witton said. "We don't think that's a good idea. If you get involved, it might lend some credence to their complaints."

Hogan thought a moment before replying. "Okay. But if they start disrupting the camp, then all bets are off."

"They won't," Witton said firmly. "We'll make sure of that."

"Okay," Hogan said with reluctance. "I'll leave it to you. For now."

Witton nodded.

"Anything else on your minds?" Hogan asked.

The captains shook their heads.

"Status quo, Colonel," Witton said. "We're just waiting until the end of the war."

Hogan nodded. "Then, dismissed."

The captains rose, picked up their notes and left.

Hogan stood, stretched and walked over to the window. Another typical late winter day, cold, damp, windy. There were few men walking about the compound, and those few were hurrying between the buildings. Would spring never arrive? Would the war never end? Would his life get simpler? A sharp laugh. Why should things get simple now? They never had before!

Of course, if he were honest with himself, Hogan had to admit that he'd made things more complicated than they needed to be. He didn't need to do what he had done. He could have been just a plain 'ole POW, not running an escape service or blowing things up.

And if he were a plain 'ole POW, he'd have gone nuts. Sitting around just wasn't his style. Never had been. So, he could thank his lucky stars, God, whomever, that Klink had decided he needed an officer to keep the POWs in line. Otherwise . . . Otherwise . . .

Hogan rubbed a crick out of his neck. Otherwise, given his propensity for not sitting still, he'd probably be dead like those fifty men who had been murdered after their mass escape from Stalag Luft III last year(9). That was exactly the kind of thing he would have done — if he hadn't come up with his escape and sabotage operation instead.

Would that have been his fate? Murdered by the Gestapo or the SS?

_Naw, not him. Not Robert Hogan. He was too smart, too slick, too good, too . . . _

Too stupid if he kept thinking that way. The men who had been killed were as brave, as smart, as he — and they were dead. Even the Stage(10) knew it could happen to him. Hogan smiled wryly. He was finally able to admit it. For a long time, he'd thought he had been invincible. Now he knew better. He got away with his antics partly because he was smart and partly because he was lucky. But also because he was at Stalag Luft 13, the most unusual POW camp on the planet, the camp run by Colonel Wilhelm Klink — the camp run by the most notorious Resistance leader in Germany, the Stage.

Hogan smiled. It had been deflating to realize the truth. In hindsight, he had to admit that it wasn't as if there were no clues. Looking back, he could see instances where someone had to have been watching his back. God knows he didn't always do a good job of that himself. He found himself shivering. How many times had the bad guys found out about him?(11) And it was sheer luck, or their greed, that had kept him from being shot on sight or taken away. He knew of two instances where the Stage had directly intervened.(12) How many others were there? One day when the war was over, he and Klink could have a long talk. He really wanted to know. God forbid there would be another war; God forbid, he'd be captured again. But if it did happen again, he wanted to do things smarter. Luck would only go so far. The men at Stalag Luft III had proven that!

_Enough thinking for the day, Robert. You've got work to do. Now, where was that . . . ? _

A commotion at the front gate got Hogan's attention. Lt. J. B. Miller's(13) work detail was back. But they were supposed to be gone for the rest of the day, working on the road by the rebuilt Adolf Hitler Bridge(14). What were they doing back this early? Then he caught sight of the cars following the truck . . .

Hogan stiffened and shot out of his room.

"Trouble," he announced, gesturing to his men. Five men, grabbing jackets, followed him out into the cold.

"They're back early," Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe, a tall mustached black man, observed.

"Something must be up," Hogan said as the truck stopped a few yards inside the gate. He watched the prisoners spill out of the truck in a hurry, and watched as the work detail was surrounded by SS men who'd poured out of the two cars that stopped just behind the truck.

One of the SS men fired his machinegun at the ground, effectively stopping the prisoners from leaving. Everyone turned to stare at the SS men, some with fear on their faces.

"There's an extra man in that detail, Colonel," Sergeant Richard Baker, a slightly shorter black man, murmured.

Hogan nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Kommandant Wilhelm Klink coming out of his office, followed by his second-in-command Captain Fritz Gruber(15).

Klink, his eyes sweeping the frozen tableau, walked over to the SS men. "What is going on?" he demanded loudly in German.

One of the men, an SS captain, turned to him and saluted. "Heil Hitler! I am Hauptsturmführer Schiff, Herr Oberst(16)," he said in accented English. "We are after an escaped prisoner."

"We have no escaped prisoners, Hauptsturmführer," Klink said. "No one has ever escaped from this camp."

"He is not your prisoner, Herr Oberst," Schiff said. "He is ours."

Klink looked at him evenly. "That does not explain what you are doing in my camp."

"I believe he is hiding here."

Klink looked disdainful. "There is no one hiding here, Hauptsturmführer."

"Your men were in a hurry," countered Schiff. "Why?"

Klink turned to rotund Sergeant Hans Schultz.

Schultz gulped audibly. "Lt. Miller was ill, Herr Kommandant. So we came back."

Schiff snorted. "What does it matter if a prisoner is ill? It is immaterial. Your sergeant is lying and your prisoner is lazy."

"That is for me to judge, Hauptsturmführer," Klink said. "Not you. Take your men and — "

"Our prisoner is here. There was no other place for him to go!"

"Who is this missing prisoner of yours?" Klink asked.

"A dangerous man. We were moving a truck full of prisoners to another camp."

"You are free to check the truck, Hauptsturmführer."

"We will! And your prisoners as well!"

"You will not find anything," Klink said.

"We will see."

Schiff motioned to his men. The SS men walked over to the truck as Hogan strolled over to Miller. Hogan's eyes swept the detail; he easily found the extra man.

"I'm sorry, Colonel," Miller whispered. "I — "

"At ease, Miller," Hogan said.

"What do we do?"

"Stay calm and don't say anything."

After a few minutes, the SS men were finished with the truck.

"Did you find anything?" Klink asked.

"Nein." Schiff scowled. "He is among the work party."

"I know every man on that party, Hauptsturmführer," Klink said. "I allow only men I trust out of the camp."

"You can identify them?"

"Yes. Which appears to be more than you can say."

Schiff flushed. "He is a worthless Jew. His appearance is immaterial."

"Then it will be rather difficult to identify him, won't it, Hauptsturmführer?"

"He is spiritless, thin, with short black hair and dressed in rags."

"That description matches a good number of the men in this camp," Klink said.

"He is wearing a yellow star."

"Which was thrown away the moment he was out of your sight. And why would he escape from one prison into another?"

"Because he would think himself safe. He is hiding among your work detail, Kommandant!"

"That remains to be seen. Since you seem unconvinced, I will identify the men. Will that satisfy you?"

"Jawohl."

"Schultz, line up the prisoners."

"Colonel," Miller began in an alarmed whisper to Hogan.

"At ease, Miller," Hogan said. "Everyone keep it relaxed," he ordered as the men reluctantly lined up. He glanced at Klink quickly.

Klink, accompanied by Schiff who had produced a small notebook, walked down the line of prisoners. "Lt. J. B. Miller," he intoned. "Corporal Jacques Dubois, Private James Dunbar, Private Christopher Mulcahy, Private Thom Mulcahy, Private Lester Carr, Corporal . . . "

Klink continued down the line. In the middle of the line, he looked at a pale man with dark brown, watery eyes. "Private Philip Wagner," Klink said clearly. The man's eyes closed as Klink walked past him.

At the end of the line, Klink turned. "Satisfied, Hauptsturmführer?"

Schiff bowed curtly. "My apologies, Herr Kommandant. We will continue our search."

"Colonel Hogan."

"Yes, sir?" Behind Klink, Hogan could see Schiff's cynical smile as he put the notebook back in his pocket. Hogan forced himself not to frown as he faced Klink.

"Take the men into your barracks for a report."

"Yes, sir." Hogan saluted and gestured to the prisoners.

"Are you going to Hammelburg, Hauptsturmführer?" Klink asked Schiff.

"Jawohl."

"You may not know," Klink said. "There is no longer a garrison at Hammelburg; a fire destroyed most of the town a few weeks ago."

Slowly, the men began moving into Barracks 2. Hogan looked back at Klink; the Kommandant was still talking with Schiff. Hogan felt himself relax. Klink's manner was nonchalant; he even had that old smile that used to drive Hogan crazy. No problems there. Hogan turned away and walked into his barracks.

Into a noisy chaotic mess. Most of the regular occupants of the barracks were on their bunks or in the far corners. The twenty men from the work detail had taken over the common area gesturing wildly or talking loudly. In the middle of it, looking confused, was "Philip Wagner". Wagner was painfully thin, his face haggard, his gray-tinged black hair cropped short, his age indeterminate. No, Hogan amended, Wagner didn't look confused; instead, overwhelmed. And even that word wasn't good enough. Wagner was managing, just, to sit straight on the bench, oblivious to the chaos swirling around him.

"How 'bout some tea, mate?" RAF Corporal Peter Newkirk pressed a tin cup into Wagner's hand.

Wagner managed what could only charitably be described as a smile. His shaking hands cupped the cup; Hogan wondered if he had the strength to raise it to his lips.

The noise was giving Hogan a headache. "Quiet!" His voice was lost in the bedlam. "That's enough!" his voice rose to no avail. His lips pursed and a shrill, ear-piercing whistle cut through the noise.

Silence finally fell, and the men turned to look at him.

"Thank you," Hogan said. "Okay, Miller. Give me the short and sweet version. The really short and sweet version."

"Yes, sir." Miller took a deep breath. "We were on the road just past the Adolf Hitler Bridge when we stumbled across," he gestured at Wagner. "He was asleep in a ditch beside the road. After we shook him awake, we got him rigged up in some of our clothes and into the truck. Then I told Schultz I wasn't feeling well and we needed to get back here right away. Schultz was going to argue until he spotted Wagner. Then he was shooing us into the truck and we lit outta there."

"Where did you pick up the SS?"

"About a mile from here. We just beat 'em to the camp."

"Okay. What about Wagner's clothes?"

"Threw 'em out when we crossed the bridge."

Hogan nodded and started to turn away.

"Colonel," Miller said, "Klink _lied_."

"Yeah, he did."

"But . . . why?"

Hogan smiled. "You're a bright boy, Miller. I'm sure you can come up with a couple of reasons."

Miller's mouth opened and then snapped shut.

Hogan grinned and turned to the others. "As for the rest of you, the story is that Wagner came in with the last batch of prisoners; that's why he looks so ragged. He was with the First Army, captured last year. That's all you need to know. Got it?"

The men nodded.

"Okay. Now get out of — "

The door opened and Klink came in. His eyes swept the assembled men and settled on Miller. "Are you feeling better, Lt. Miller?"

Miller smiled weakly. "Much better, sir."

"You will be able to go back to work this afternoon?"

Miller sighed audibly. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Klink turned to the others. "The rest of you as well?"

The men of the work detail nodded.

"Good." Klink turned back to Miller and froze. "Lt. Miller." Klink's voice was unusually soft. "The next time," his hand reached toward Miller's jacket pocket, "you decide to hide something," Klink pulled a yellow cloth from Miller's pocket, "please do a better job."

Miller gulped noisily as he stared at the yellow star in Klink's hand. "Yes, sir," he finally managed to whisper.

Klink nodded and crumpled the star in his fist.

Hogan stared at Klink's fist and shook himself mentally. That had been too close. If Schiff had seen that, they would all have been in trouble. "Good thing Schiff was blind," Hogan muttered and turned back to Wagner. The poor guy was barely holding it together; he sure didn't look well. "Sorry about that," Hogan said. "We're normally more careful."

Wagner managed a shaky smile. "I was not worried," he said in a soft accented voice.

Hogan blinked. That was an oddly confident comment, a thought he could see reflected on the faces of the other men. "O-kay." Hogan turned to order the other men out.

"Everything will be all right now, mon ami," French Corporal Louis LeBeau said as some of the members of the work detail began leaving.

"Ja," Wagner continued in that same soft voice. "I knew when we reached camp."

"Weren't you scared?" young American Sergeant Andrew Carter asked.

"Nein. God would not let me die now." Wagner's eyes were on Hogan.

_No, not me_, Hogan realized. He turned to see Klink looking at Wagner with a puzzled expression.

Newkirk snorted. "I'm not sure God cares, mate."

Half of the men from the detail were still there, including Miller and the Mulcahy twins.

"Anything we can do for you, Kommandant?" Hogan asked.

"Yes." Klink cleared his voice. "It seems the paperwork on Private Wagner is incomplete. We are missing items such as birth date, serial number and the like. If you would . . .?"

Hogan smiled. "No problem, Kommandant. So, Private Wagner," he quipped, "when were you born?"

"July 15, 1910," Wagner said.

Hogan felt Klink move closer. He glanced back; Klink had the oddest look on his face. Then Hogan looked at Wagner. Wagner was now standing, his trembling fingers braced on the table, and he was staring intently at Klink. The air was suddenly thick with a tension Hogan didn't understand, a tension felt by everyone in the room.

Wagner took a step toward Klink. Hogan backed away from the two men, keeping his eyes on Klink.

The silence dragged on. Klink had a look on his face that Hogan had never seen — part confusion and part . . . what?

Wagner took another step toward Klink, away from the table. "I once said it would take better men than they to kill me. God saw fit not to strike me for my arrogance."

Shock distorted Klink's face. "Binyamin?"

Wagner smiled wanly, took a step forward, and collapsed. Klink caught him before he hit the floor and cradled him in his arms.

Hogan knelt beside them. "Get a stretcher!" The look on Klink's face . . .

"I saw them shoot . . . I thought he was dead . . . " Klink mumbled.

Two men appeared with a stretcher; Wagner was laid on it. Hogan and Klink stood. Klink stepped and turned away while Wagner was carried out in total silence.

Hogan looked at Klink. Klink was standing alongside the right wall, his eyes on Hogan's door.

_Who was Binyamin? _Hogan wondered. _What was his connection to Klink? Klink was too still . . . What's he thinking?_

"Kommandant?"

Klink stirred. His eyes dropped to his clenched fist. His fingers opened slowly, revealing the yellow star.

Hogan looked at the star; he knew the star identified Jews. He remembered reading about it years ago when he was more interested in paying his dues and getting into flight training. Jews were banned from Germany, that he remembered. Put into refugee camps or something. Didn't he see something about Jews being relocated to another country? Madagascar or someplace? Hogan opened his mouth . . .

And nearly jumped out of his skin. Klink's fingers had closed around the star and tightened into a fist that lashed out, striking the mirror above the sink. The mirror shattered.

_My God, he's going to lose it!_ Hogan took a step toward Klink and stopped. Klink's body was a quivering line, his eyes blazed with naked fury. _He can't! If he does, he won't be able to go back. Kommandant Klink would be gone forever. Leaving who? The Stage? Wilhelm Klink?_

Hogan was very afraid that only the Stage would be left. He wanted desperately to say something. But he couldn't find the words.

The seconds passed agonizingly, seconds where nobody in the crowded barracks seemed to breathe.

Finally, Klink, his fist still against the broken mirror, stirred. He took a deep breath; the quivering stopped. Slowly his fist lowered.

Klink opened his fingers and looked at the star again. The anger was gone, replaced by a deep sadness. Holding the star loosely in his hand, Klink walked over to the stove. He opened the door and tossed the star into the fire. He turned to the barracks door and paused. Then he spoke in a voice most of them had never heard before. "Please get the paperwork on Private Wagner to Fräulein Hilda as soon as you can, Colonel Hogan."

"Yes, sir."

Klink nodded and left.

The silence continued.

* * *

1 "The Gold Rush"

2 "Hold That Tiger"

3 _Act Three_

4 "The Big Gamble"

5 _Act Three_

6 Mel Hughes: _Dress Rehearsal 2: Encore, _used with permission.

7 _Act Three_

8 "The Flame Grows Higher"

9 A fictionalized version of the event is in the movie _The Great Escape_

10 _Act One_

11 Two glaring examples were in "Two Nazis for the Price of One" and "Diamonds in the Rough".

12 _Act One_

13 "The Meister Spy"

14 "German Bridge Is Falling Down"

15 "Don't Forget to Write"

16 Colonel in German


	2. Chapter 2

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 2

After dark, Colonel Robert Hogan and Kommandant Wilhelm Klink walked across the compound to the infirmary. Twenty-two men were still housed in the infirmary, weak from lingering cases of pneumonia and dysentery. In the back, screened from the others, was "Private Philip Wagner", real name Binyamin Weiner.

Hogan had seen Binyamin earlier to fill in the details on the fake personnel folder they were creating on him. Afterwards, Hogan had delivered the file to the Kommandant's office. Klink wasn't in, but Hilda had told Hogan what had happened after Klink returned to his office. Klink had made two calls, one to Berlin and the other to Düsseldorf. Hilda wasn't sure what the calls were about, but she had been surprised and impressed. As far as she could tell, Klink hadn't been servile or pushy. And Klink had won his point on both calls, leaving both Hogan and Hilda curious about them.

Binyamin looked at them as they walked over. Klink pulled up a stool and sat. Hogan leaned against the shuttered window, his arms folded.

Binyamin smiled faintly. "Wilhelm, you are looking well," he said in German.

Klink's smile was less steady. "I wish I could say the same about you."

"The past ten years . . . " A brief smile. "Perhaps a penance for my pampered youth." Then he looked at Hogan. "Colonel," he said in English, "forgive me."

"It's okay; I understand German."

"Danke. Nein . . . No," Binyamin said softly. "If I am Philip Wagner, I must practice English."

Hogan nodded curtly.

After an awkward silence, Klink glanced down at his hands, clasped them and looked at Binyamin. "I saw them shoot you in the head. What happened?"

Binyamin closed his eyes for a moment. "That day . . . Do you remember?"

Klink nodded.

Binyamin glanced at Hogan. "You may not know, Colonel, but Jews were not the first people taken by the Nazis. Gypsies were. There was a place outside the city with hundreds. The Nazis were taking them to concentration camps. Wilhelm and others were taking some away. I was there as a . . . I do not know the word . . . Vermittler . . . "

"Go-between," Klink translated; Hogan nodded.

"That day, a group of women and children had been taken out; Wilhelm left a few minutes later. I started to go the other way when I saw the SS. I could have hidden, but they would have found Wilhelm. It had not been enough time for him to leave. I," he shrugged, "let them see me."

Klink winced, but stayed silent.

"I struggled and they were not happy. I was put with six others who were trouble. On the road outside the camp, an SS officer shot each in the head.

"I was riding by on a bicycle when it happened," Klink said quietly. "The SS had stopped traffic so others could see what happened to troublemakers."

"I know," Binyamin said softly. "I saw you. I did not want you to see, but someone would know what happened to me. Your face was the last I saw when the bullet entered my head. I . . . died." A faint smile. "Or so they thought.

"I wake in bodies to be buried. I felt no pain. I heard soldiers talking. I must have moved because I was seen. The officer in charge came over. As he looked at me, my eyes opened and looked into his. A sergeant came over and gave him a paper. He looked at it and shouted. He received the promotion and the place he wanted. I knew he was ready to shoot me. But the new Hauptsturmführer Danziger was very superstitious; many SS are. He was convinced I was, how do I say, good luck?"

Klink nodded.

"Danziger took me to a doctor. The bullet entered my head and left the other side and did no damage to my brain. God kept me alive. Why, I do not know. Danziger has kept me as a servant. Since that time, we have gone to many places. Each was better than the last, and his career was good. But the past months, his sins caught him. I was no longer good luck. I was only a Jew lucky to be alive. Danziger is in charge of moving slave labor from subcamps in Düsseldorf. We were to go to a train station in the east to join others on the way to concentration camps. Or killed. God was with me. I escaped and I ran until I could run no more. Your men found me. And," he smiled, "here I am."

Klink was silent, staring at his hands. Then his head rose. "Why didn't you get a message to me? I could have . . . "

Binyamin was shaking his head. "Nein. You were a new lieutenant colonel. Why should you care about untermenschen(1), a worthless rabbinical student? You would be under suspicion or you would be imprisoned. I would not take the risk."

"There were ways . . . "

"Perhaps now. Then . . . " He shook his head. "You were too important to risk."

Klink winced.

Binyamin smiled. "Even in the camps, there were whispers. You succeeded more than we ever hoped."

"Not enough."

"No one can do everything. You did more than most. At a cost."

"Others paid more."

Binyamin nodded. "And others paid nothing. There is nothing to blame yourself."

Klink shook his head sadly. "You are tired; rest now."

A hesitation. "Wilhelm, I must ask . . . "

"Anything."

"The men with me — "

"I will see what I can do."

Binyamin shook his head. "Nein, their fates are decided. But tomorrow, there will be two trucks with women and children. They also go to concentration camps. Sixty lives are not many, but . . . "

"I will take care of them."

Binyamin smiled. "Danke, Wilhelm."

"Rest, Binyamin." Klink's hand lay lightly on Binyamin's.

Binyamin nodded. "Now, I think I can. Gute Nacht, Wilhelm." With a sigh, his eyes closed.

Klink stood. He and Hogan stepped away from the cot, back near the partially opened supply room door.

"Two trucks," Klink said. "With SS escort."

"A problem," Hogan said "In daylight . . . "

"It will not be daylight. After this morning, I complained. As you Americans put it, I laid it on a bit thick — the effect on the prisoners, the lack of guards, the overcrowded conditions . . . "

Hogan smiled. "Made it sound like there's gonna be a riot."

Klink nodded. "The officer I talked to was most helpful. He assured me there would be no more daylight trips." A pause. "Pity the underground didn't get around to the Adolf Hitler Bridge again. With the bridge gone, there would be no reason for anyone to come this way."

Hogan grinned. "Yeah, a pity."

Klink smiled faintly. "I'll leave it in your capable hands."

"You're all heart, Kommandant."

"I'll try to get you some information later."

Hogan nodded.

"Then, good night, Colonel Hogan."

"Good night, Kommandant."

Klink nodded and left.

Hogan leaned back against the wall, cap pushed down over his eyes, arms folded.

_Two trucks. Sixty passengers — and what the hell do we do with them? A problem for later. But right now . . ._

_Two men in the cabs, maybe a motorcycle escort. Maybe a couple of guards in the backs of the trucks. Ten? But taking them out needed to be bloodless. We'll need more than five men. Twenty would be a good number — men who spoke German or at least understood it. Miller — he could use the field experience. The Mulcahy(_2)_ twins — big, strapping boys, they were pretty good in silent hand- to-hand. Maybe —_

Hogan's eyes snapped open; the door beside him was squeaking open. Two men poked their heads around the door and found themselves staring at Hogan.

"How long have you guys been in there?" Hogan demanded.

Morrison gulped. "An hour or so, Colonel."

"An hour? So you heard every word . . . "

Morrison and Bellini nodded.

"Fine," Hogan snapped. "You two just volunteered for the mission."

He jammed the cap on his head and left.

The next twenty-four hours were among the busiest and most hectic of Hogan's stay at Stalag 13. He'd spent a sleepless night deciding who to take and what to do. Klink's only input into his planning was a note delivered by Schultz. Klink had learned that the trucks and their SS escort, possibly a dozen men, including motorcycles, should be reaching the Adolf Hitler Bridge about midnight.

Finally, Hogan knew what he was going to do.

...

There were twenty-seven men in the tunnels, listening. Hogan, his team, their "outside" man, Sergeant Glenn Olsen(3), and their underground contact, Max Fleischer(4), were gathered around the map; the others were scattered around.

"Okay," Hogan said, "we've got two objectives — the bridge and the convoy. The bridge will be the least of our worries. Kinch, Max, you'll take care of the bridge. Max, you'll need about five or six men to plant the charges."

"Not a problem, Colonel."

"Good. Now, it gets tricky. You're gonna blow the bridge either after we all get back across it after stopping the convoy, or one hour after we engage the convoy. We'll get word to you when the convoy is spotted. Kinch," his eyes met the other man's, "I mean exactly one hour. No delays for any reason. If it takes longer than an hour, we're probably in trouble."

Kinch nodded soberly.

"Baker," Hogan continued, "you and a couple of men will be our lookouts. You'll be stationed, here," his finger jabbed the map, "about a mile from our location. Your job is to let us know when the convoy passes you and how many men they've got. After they pass, you'll block the road to prevent any surprises. And to stop anyone who might get by the rest of us. We can't have anyone getting away until we want them to."

"Right, Colonel."

"That leaves the rest of us. Now, here's the delicate part. We don't want any violence — no shooting unless there's no other choice. And we can't have them shooting either. We don't want the women and kids, or us, getting hit. Right?"

The listening men nodded.

"But," asked LeBeau, "how do we get them not to shoot?"

"We ask them?" Carter suggested, attracting a number of disbelieving looks.

Hogan smiled. "Not quite. We give them a stake in not shooting. By making them think that if they do they'll wind up dead. Carter, I want you and your gang of happy saboteurs to put together a couple of dozen mines."

"I don't have enough explosives, Colonel," Carter said. "Not if we have to blow the bridge."

"Not a problem." A wide smile now. "All you need is a couple of real mines that make a lot of noise. The rest can be dummies."

"I get it," Newkirk said with a grin. "We'll blow one up and make 'em think the others will blow as well."

"Right. Well, Carter?"

"That I can do, boy! Uh, sir," Carter agreed. "Make a couple really loud and messy . . . Yessir, no problem."

"Olsen, you're going to be a Wehrmacht lieutenant. Those men not on the bridge or lookout will be part of a work party, Wehrmacht men. Newkirk, that means you need to scrounge up about twenty uniforms, including a lieutenant and a captain."

Newkirk rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The officers, we have. But twenty others . . . "

"They just have to look the part. In the dark."

"I guess we can take bits and pieces from some of the others, like the Luftwaffe ones. I'll get some of the boys to 'elp out. Not a problem, Colonel."

"Okay. Olsen, you're the lieutenant in charge. You'll be there with a nice, conspicuous 'Halt' sign. You're supervising a Wehrmacht detail that's mining the roads."

"Won't that raise suspicion, Colonel?" Olsen asked.

Hogan shook his head. "Roads are being mined by the retreating German armies."

"But there's no war around here," LeBeau said.

"It's a precaution. Ordered by Abwehr. They may not like it, but it's a real enough explanation. The rest of you men," Hogan looked at the others listening in, "will be digging holes along the road with some of the fake mines beside you. Then, Carter, you 'accidentally' set off one of the mines. That should convince them that shooting might be a bit dangerous."

"Are we all going to be armed, Colonel?" Miller asked.

Hogan nodded. "Just in case, yes."

Kinch frowned. "All of us?"

Hogan nodded.

"We don't have enough weapons, Colonel," Kinch said.

"I know."

"I suppose we could take them from Klink's armory," Baker said.

Hogan shook his head. "Nope, there's a better source. Remember those supplies that Hochstetter hid around here last year?"(5)

Most of the men nodded.

"We never did dig them all up. I checked the map we stole from Hochstetter; one of those cases is a cache of weapons, small arms. Olsen, you and Max pick them up on your way back tonight. I'll give you the coordinates before you leave."

"Yes, sir."

"If everything goes as planned, we won't need the guns, other than for show. Remember, we don't want any shooting.

"Kinch, the truck in operating order? Except for the parts we took out."

Kinch grinned. "Yes, sir."

Hogan smiled as well. Their transport — a truck they had liberated months ago from the camp's motor pool — was waiting in a shed in the woods. Of course, it had a few parts missing so it couldn't be driven if someone else stumbled across it.

Hogan looked at the men gathered around him. The Mulcahy twins, Morrison, Bellini, Miller, Wainwright, Martinez, Spinoza, MacKay, Keegan, and the rest. Yeah, they could all handle themselves in a fight if they had to. Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that, but he wasn't going to bet on it.

"Okay," Hogan said, tossing his pencil on the table. "That's it for now. Everyone back here right after evening roll call. And, fellas, keep a low profile up top. We don't want any unexpected problems. Dismissed."

Hogan drew Olsen and Max apart as the other men started to leave. He gave them the directions to the cache. They nodded and left.

Soon the room was nearly empty. Carter and his explosives team were off in a sheltered room making the mines. Newkirk and LeBeau were going over their supply of German uniforms.

Hogan settled back in his chair, and tipped his hat over his forehead. Now came the hard part — waiting.

* * *

1 Untermenschen — subhuman. Nazis considered Jews, Gypsies, Slavs, Poles and others subhuman, fit only for slave labor, otherwise expendable.

2 Mel Hughes: _Dress Rehearsal_, used with permission

3 "The Informer"

4 The grocer in "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?"

5 "It's Dynamite"


	3. Chapter 3

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 3

They were a few hundred yards from the Adolf Hitler Bridge. Kinch and his group were at the bridge, placing the charges. Once, Hogan had planned to put explosives in the bridge as it was being rebuilt.(1) Great idea in conception, lousy idea upon execution — too easy to blow up the builders, along with the prisoners they'd conscript. So, he'd abandoned the idea. Well, they'd destroyed it once; they could do it again. Baker and his group were up the road, just past the bend, ready to call, ready to block the road after the trucks passed by. The remaining men were waiting anxiously with picks, shovels and mines.

Hogan, dressed as a Wehrmacht captain, was giving the last set of instructions when Miller coughed nervously.

"Uh, Colonel," Miller said, and gestured toward the woods on the side of the road.

Hogan, impatient, turned and was surprised to see a masked man in black along with half a dozen others. "Stage."

Eyes turned to the masked man as he walked over. Hogan could hear the murmurs of surprise, even awe, from the waiting men, and grinned inwardly.

"Glad you could make it, Stage," Hogan said.

"I brought some friends," the Stage said, gesturing at the other men. "They'll take the passengers off your hands."

Hogan sighed with relief. "Thanks." He never did figure out what to do with them. Then he said in a low voice, "You could have warned me."

A fleeting smile. "Wasn't sure I could put it together." Then in a louder voice, "Fill me in, bitte."

Hogan did so rapidly.

The Stage nodded. "Where do you want us?"

Hogan was surprised. He'd half expected the Stage to take over. Then again, he'd never worked with the Stage before. Was this the way the Stage handled his operations? Letting others take the lead? An unexpected pang of latent guilt hit Hogan. He was in charge on nearly every mission, whether he needed to be or not — the mark of a good commander.

Or an insecure one? His ego had demanded that he be there. To show his men what to do? To mother them? Or did the good commanders, the great ones, also allow others to take the lead? Let his men do their jobs without always looking over their shoulders. Hell, he'd hated it when his superiors babysat him.

Yeah, but the few times he'd let them go alone, they fouled up. Or did they foul up because he never left them alone?

The Stage was eyeing him curiously.

Woolgathering. Right before a mission, and he was woolgathering. "Okay, everyone take your positions. Stage, you and your men can take out the guards in the cabs."

The Stage nodded and gestured to the men with him. Without a word, the men melted into the darkness.

They must have worked together for some time. Hogan said the thought aloud. And started when the Stage informed him that he'd never worked with the unit before.

"You're kidding," Hogan said.

"Units are trained to operate almost soundlessly, relying on visual cues."

Another twinge of guilt. Many of Hogan's missions had been anything but quiet. Or as anonymous as those men. Sometimes, his men had worn their uniforms, even calling each other by name. No wonder their cover had been nearly blown before. He'd stopped that after the fiasco with Crittendon last year(2), but it still gave him a pang whenever he remembered some of those past missions.

The Stage was looking at him, waiting patiently. Hogan cleared his throat. "Okay, everyone take your places. And remember, no talking except in German. And stay in the shadows; we don't want anyone getting a look at you."

The men dispersed to their assigned positions. Olsen, in a lieutenant's uniform, was up the road, near the bend. Olsen had been living with Max Fleischer, posing as a disabled nephew. As a result, his German accent was perfect. And he was more anonymous than the men from the camp. Olsen would confront the convoy first. Hogan would step in only if it looked like there would be a problem.

One last look around. The Stage and his men had disappeared into the trees. Most of Hogan's men were on the road, digging holes, planting the phony mines. Dim lanterns, turned away from the men, were placed every ten feet or so. Olsen was walking up and down between them. Hogan nodded and stepped off the road to wait.

His walkie-talkie sounded a few minutes later.

"They're here, Colonel," Baker said softly. "Two trucks. Four motorcycles in pairs, front and back. Looks like there are two men in the cabs and two more in the backs of each truck."

Hogan nodded in the darkness. Unless there were more guards in the trucks that Baker couldn't see, that made twelve men. Hopefully, they were tired and bored. And none too eagerto risk their lives for slave laborers.

A rumbling cut into his thoughts; Hogan felt himself tensing.

Olsen let the trucks get between the men on the sides of the road and then stepped in front of the lead truck, holding a "Halt!" sign. The headlights of the first truck spotlighted his figure as it lumbered to a stop. Olsen walked over to the opening right-side door. An SS lieutenant, his uniform impeccable, stepped out.

_Uh, oh_, Hogan thought. _Just the type we don't want — young, arrogant, fresh out of the Hitler Youth. Exactly the type to do something stupid._

The SS officer looked at Olsen's slightly shorter form. "I am Obersturmführer Gruner. What is the meaning of this?"

"My apologies, Herr Obersturmführer," Olsen said smoothly. "We are planting mines along the road in case of invasion."

"I was not informed of any mines. Where did the order come from?"

"Abwehr, Herr Obersturmführer."

"Abwehr. A nest of incompetents or worse," Gruner sneered. "Let us pass."

"I am sorry, Herr Obersturmführer. You will need to wait a few more minutes."

"Wait? My orders are to get these prisoners to Münster by dawn. Since we are forced to use these back roads instead of the autobahn, we do not have time to — "

A loud explosion ten feet from the lead truck cut into his complaint, startling them.

Hogan, advancing with a relish, rounded on Carter. "Dummkopf! Are you trying to kill us?"

"Entschuldigung, Herr Hauptmann," Carter whined. "It was an accident."

"Accident?" A visibly pale Gruner came over. "Negligence!"

Hogan raised a brow and turned to him. "Accidents will happen, Obersturmführer."

Behind the young officer, Hogan could see men creeping soundlessly behind the motorcycle escorts and, just as soundlessly, taking them out. At the same time, the Stage's men were at the trucks' cabs, jerking open the doors. For Hogan, time seemed to speed up.

One of the bikes started to slip as the man on it tried to fight the arm around his neck. Gruner turned around to see his men going down.

"Don't move," Carter said, pulling a gun from his pocket.

Astonishment on his face, Gruner turned back to Hogan. "Was geht hier vor?"

Hogan smiled grimly. "We're taking possession of your prisoners, Gruner."

Hogan had to admire his self-possession; Gruner laughed. "These are only worthless Jewesses and children."

"If they're worthless," Hogan said in a cold voice, "then you don't mind if we take them. Do you?"

Gruner's face tightened, but he kept silent.

Hogan walked over to the others. "All secure?"

Olsen grinned. "All secure, sir."

"Good. Get them in the ditch. Tie them up, blindfold and gag them."

"Right, sir."

Hogan turned back to Gruner, just in time to hear Carter cry out as the lieutenant attacked him. That provoked some of the braver guards. And Hogan's up until now easy mission became more complicated as a free-for-all broke out. Hogan could only glance at the struggling men before Gruner took all of his attention. Carter was on his knees, holding his groin, and Gruner was heading for the woods.

With a stifled curse, Hogan took off after him. The fleeing SS man was a dark blur under the pale moonlight. Hogan ran faster; he couldn't lose Gruner.

There was a small clearing ahead. Hogan cursed, sped up, and lunged for Gruner. He landed heavily on the frozen ground, his arms around Gruner's legs. Trying unsuccessfully to avoid the kicking boots, Hogan scrambled, trying to pin Gruner down. Breathing heavily, Hogan was shocked to see a gun in Gruner's hand. _Damn! Where did that come from?_

Everything blurred for Hogan as his fingers reached for the gun. Hogan grunted as Gruner swung at him. And grunted again as they thrashed on the ground, a stray rock squishing against his neck.

_Where the hell was the gun?_ He glimpsed the weapon between Gruner's and his body. _Damn!_ Hogan's gloved fingers finally closed on the gun. _Now, point it somewhere else! _

_And where the hell was everyone?_

He had to get Gruner's fingers off the gun. He had to get that gun away from Gruner.

A muffled plop rang in his ears; something slammed his left forearm.

_What was . . . ? _

_Damnit, where's that . . ._

His fingers squeezed around Gruner's, trying to pry Gruner's fingers off the gun.

A much louder plop sounded. Gruner gasped; his fingers separated. Hogan heaved a sigh of relief, and pushed away from Gruner. And grunted as Gruner didn't budge. _Sheesh. How much did he weigh?_

Gruner suddenly shifted, and Hogan found himself staring up at the Stage. He turned his head; Gruner was lying next to him, unmoving.

"Are you all right?" the Stage asked.

"Yeah, fine," Hogan managed to gasp. He was out of breath, tired. _Getting old_.

Hogan turned over onto his left side, and pushed up. But his left hand didn't want to work. Didn't hurt, just refused to work.

The Stage knelt beside him, and pushed Hogan onto his back.

"What are you doing?" Hogan asked.

The Stage was looking at Hogan's left arm. "You've been shot."

"Shot? Me? You're crazy!"

Firm but gentle hands kept him still. "You don't feel anything?"

"No."

"You will."

"Thanks!"

The Stage got his hand under Hogan's right elbow. "Come on."

Hogan, leaning more on the Stage than he liked, got to his feet. He swayed tiredly. His left arm still didn't hurt, but it was numb. And he couldn't raise it.

Hogan accidentally kicked into Gruner; he looked down. "Is he dead?"

The Stage knelt beside Gruner and felt his neck. "He's dead." The Stage checked Gruner's pockets and pulled out a set of credentials. He stood. "Let's get back to the others."

Hogan took a step and unexpectedly sank to his knees. "What the — ?"

The Stage was at his side, his hand under Hogan's right elbow, helping him stand. "Come on."

Hogan took a step forward and grimaced. Not the steadiest of his life, but he managed another step and another.

More tired than he'd thought possible, Hogan reached the road. A quick look around. The guards had been tied together in the ditch beside the road, blindfolded and gagged. The other men were standing on the road waiting for Hogan and the Stage.

One of the Stage's men came over. "We are ready," he said with a soft French accent.

The Stage nodded.

A woman, emaciated, prematurely gray, balding and dressed in a formless shift, came over from one of the trucks.

"We had given up hope that people of conscience still lived," she said in a throaty voice. "God has proved us wrong." Her cold hand touched Hogan's face and she murmured something in a language he didn't know. She repeated the gesture, touching the Stage's mask. "God bless you both," she whispered, and walked back to the truck.

"Go," the Stage said.

His men nodded and climbed into the cabs of the trucks.

The Stage and Hogan walked over to the side of the road. The trucks backed away from them and then made a U-turn, heading back in the direction they'd come from.

"Where are they going?" Hogan asked softly.

"Don't know."

Hogan stared at him. "You don't know?"

"Don't need to."

Hogan's jaw clamped shut. _Don't need to . . . He's the one in charge and he doesn't need . . ._

A sharp unexpected pain sliced through his left arm and he hissed.

The Stage gestured to Baker. "Get him back to your truck now," he said softly.

"I'm fine," Hogan protested.

"He's not," the Stage said. "Go."

Baker nodded, and took Hogan's right arm gently.

Hogan glanced back to see the Stage step down into the ditch, and tuck Gruner's credentials into one of the Germans' pockets. Hogan grimaced and let Baker lead him to their truck.

The Stage joined them while the rest of the men picked up the tools and mines. Hogan was helped into the cab as the men got into the back of the truck. The Stage climbed in beside Hogan.

Hogan looked at him in surprise. "Coming with us?"

"Faster than walking."

Hogan managed a smile and then groaned softly. That pain in his arm was beginning to throb annoyingly, kind of like a toothache. Worse, his head was feeling funny, fuzzy. And his eyes insisted on closing.

Baker started the truck.

After a couple of hundred yards, the road forked. Baker took the right fork to the Adolf Hitler Bridge. A few minutes later, the truck rumbled across the bridge. Baker stopped the truck a few hundred feet beyond the bridge.

"Why'd we stop?" Hogan asked in a drowsy voice, his eyes opening.

A massive explosion shook the truck and the ground, and the Adolf Hitler Bridge, the last link to Düsseldorf and points west, was gone.

"That's good," Hogan said in a slurred voice and closed his eyes.

"Colonel?" Baker asked worriedly.

"He'll be fine," the Stage said, hoping it was true. He turned his gaze back to the road.

* * *

1 "German Bridge Is Falling Down"

2 Mel Hughes: _Dress Rehearsal_


	4. Chapter 4

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 4

Hogan opened his eyes before they reached the truck's hiding place. The fatigue had passed. So had the numbness. Now, his arm throbbed with each beat of his heart. Painfully, like a bad toothache that refused to go away. But not as bad as that abscessed tooth he'd had the summer before he was shot down. That was pain. And the root canal that followed was almost as bad. As long as he didn't move, it was bearable. Trouble was, he had to move.

The truck stopped. The door opened and the Stage climbed out. "Coming?"

Hogan sighed and scooted over to the door. He winced. Moving made the arm a bit more like that abscessed tooth. But it couldn't be helped. And they still had a walk of half a mile, a hilly half a mile, to the tree stump.

Well, as long as he didn't do anything stupid, the pain wasn't too bad. He'd been hurt worse before.

When?

The motorcycle accident when he broke his ankle.(1) He'd had done a real number on his foot thanks to some black ice. But he'd spent the worst of it doped up at the hospital.

Then the time he broke his leg in junior high playing football. He'd tried to prove he could play with the big boys who'd had a whole head on him and a lot more pounds. Not one of his better ideas; he'd spent the summer in a cast. But they had come away with a grudging respect for Robert E. Hogan. And they stopped calling him Bobby, which he'd hated with a passion. In retrospect, it had been worth the broken leg.

Hogan cradled his left arm. Guess this was worth it too. "Stage? That woman — do you know what she said?"

The Stage nodded. "A Hebrew blessing. Binyamin's father used to say it once in a while."

His tone had become withdrawn. Was Hogan prying too much? There was still so much Hogan didn't know about the man.

And this wasn't the time to go into it, not with twenty strangers around. Besides, his head hurt as well as his arm. And he was slowing down.

_To let the others get there first. Can't have twenty-five men trying to get into the tree stump at the same time. Cause quite a traffic jam. Make it a sure-fire cinch that we'd be seen._

Still, he lagged behind far more than he'd intended.

Finally, they were at the stump. They could see the camp's lights, watchtowers and barbed wire. Home, sweet home.

Or not.

Most of the men had already gone down into the tunnel by the time Hogan reached the stump. Only the Stage, Kinch and Hogan were left on top.

He hated to admit it to himself, but Hogan had to be helped down the ladder to the tunnel. His left hand and fingers refused to cooperate. Kinch, _bless him_, was steadying Hogan down the ladder. At the bottom, Hogan stepped away, swaying as he did so. His right hand lifted to cradle his left elbow. His left forearm was throbbing painfully with each heartbeat. _Damn, it hurt_. His teeth clamped together tightly; his muscles tensed up.

"Don't," the Stage murmured in his ear. "Relax your muscles; it'll hurt more if you're tense."

Hogan nodded curtly and took a deep breath. That relaxed the tightest muscles. Then he tried to relax the rest of them. And he shuddered as pain shot down his arm. A groan slipped out, attracting glances from his men. He realized with a pang that LeBeau and Newkirk, among others, hadn't known he'd been shot. LeBeau turned white as a sheet, even looked faint, and Newkirk — well, he didn't look faint, but he looked shaken just the same.

Hogan tried a smile, one that gave his face a ghastly appearance.

"I'll take him to the radio room," Kinch said in a calm voice. "Less traffic there."

Hogan would have agreed. But he hurt too much to say a word. He was dimly aware of passing branches of the tunnel system. And passing startled men.

In the radio room, Sergeant Walter Red Hand(2), a full-blooded Lakota who'd been manning the radio, stood as they entered.

"Any messages?" Kinch asked as he led Hogan to a stool beside the radio table.

"None," Red Hand said quietly as Hogan sat. Then he noticed the black-clad man who also entered.

"Bandages, water, sulfa," the Stage was saying as he eased Hogan's coat off. He ripped the shirtsleeve, exposing the still bleeding wound. After removing his gloves, he examined the wound with gentle fingers.

Hogan tried not to wince. And failed. Then he noticed the worried looks on the faces of his men. Not only his crew, but also the half dozen or so men who were getting rid of the German uniforms. Hogan cleared his throat. "Newkirk."

Newkirk visibly started. "Sir?"

"All the uniforms accounted for?" Hogan was pleased that his voice wasn't shaking — unlike his insides.

The Stage glanced at his pale face.

"I'll check, Colonel," Newkirk said and went down an auxiliary tunnel.

"Is there any coffee?" the Stage asked. "And sugar?"

LeBeau found his voice. "Oui, Monsieur."

"Black with a lot of sugar for Colonel Hogan," the Stage said.

"That's not the way I drink it," Hogan protested.

"You need it," was the quiet answer. "Add a handful of aspirin to it."

"Oui, Monsieur."

A man entered the room. He nodded to Miller, the Mulcahy twins, Olsen and the others. "Colonel Hogan," he began in a crisp British voice. "Captain Witton . . . " He stopped, shocked speechless.

Hogan glanced at the newcomer. Mr. Geoffrey Samuelson, once so very long ago the senior man in the camp.(3) Until a cocky, too cocky Hogan now admitted, American colonel arrived in the camp. Samuelson was smart, competent, and had been ever so timid. The timidity had disappeared for the most part. But if the look on Samuelson's face was any indication, it still lingered beneath the surface.

Hogan cleared his throat, trying to ignore the Stage's still probing fingers. "Quiet upstairs?" he asked with a wince.

Samuelson looked at Hogan and the Stage. He'd never seen the Stage, of course. But he, like most of the camp, had heard of him. It was a little unnerving to find him in the tunnels. But it was even more unnerving to see that wound in Hogan's arm.

"Yes, sir," Samuelson said slowly. "All quiet." Then he smiled faintly. "Though there was a godawful explosion a bit ago."

"Anyone interested in it?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Olsen, fill him in." Hogan shifted uneasily as the Stage cleansed his arm with the water. He winced as sulfa was sprinkled liberally on the wound. A quick glance at the wound. It didn't look like much — a small neat red spot on his arm. "Will I live?" And clamped his teeth shut as dizziness swept over him.

"You're lucky," the Stage said. "The bullet went through cleanly. No major tears or bleeding."

"Yeah, lucky." Why did he feel so shaky? "Guess you won't have to return January's favor," he added, alluding to the time he had to remove a bullet from the Stage's shoulder.

The Stage stayed quiet as he bandaged Hogan's arm.

Hogan sipped the coffee LeBeau had handed him and made a face. Far too sweet. Moreover, he was less than pleased to discover that his hand was shaking. And his insides. And his head was swimming. And he was —

The loud jangling of the telephone startled them, and froze the men starting to leave.

Baker moved over to the telephone station. "They're ringing Klink's line," he said.

Hogan and the Stage exchanged looks.

"Put it on the speaker," Hogan said, pushing the wooziness away with an effort.

After several loud rings, they heard, "Kommandant Klink's office. Hauptmann Gruber here."

"Get me Klink," demanded a rough hard voice.

Gruber cleared his throat. "The Kommandant is not available. If I — "

"This is Standartenführer(4) Danziger of the SS. I demand to speak to Klink."

"My apologies, Herr Standartenführer," Gruber said in a shaky voice. "But the Kommandant is not in."

"He's not?" Danziger's voice turned dangerous. "Staff officers were to be at their posts by dark. And he is not there?"

"Nein, Herr Standartenführer. I mean, jawohl, Herr Standartenführer. He is here," Gruber babbled. "But he left strict orders . . . "

"Why the bloody hell doesn't he get Klink," Samuelson whispered loudly.

Olsen was watching the Stage and Hogan. Both men had the oddest expressions on their faces. Olsen grabbed Samuelson's arm painfully. "I don't think he can," he managed to croak.

"What?"

Olsen didn't reply; he just nodded at Hogan and the Stage.

Hogan could hear the Stage's sigh as Danziger got louder and Gruber got shakier. "Get Newkirk," he told Carter; Newkirk did a decent Klink imitation.

The Stage shook his head and reached for the telephone.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hogan could see the shock on the faces of the watching men as the Stage took the phone in one hand and pulled off the mask with the other, revealing . . .

"This is Kommandant Klink," said the loud exasperated voice. "Do you realize what time — ?"

"This is Standartenführer Danziger."

"Standartenführer Danziger," said the now fawning voice. "It is always a pleasure to . . . " But there was no pleasure on Klink's face or in his eyes.

"Silence!" Danziger roared.

Klink shut up, waiting expressionlessly.

"I sent a convoy to your area, Klink. They were to stop at your camp and report on their progress." Klink raised a brow. "They should have reported in an hour ago."

"I assure you, sir, that no one stopped here."

"I guessed as much, you fool! I want you to go look for them. Personally."

Hogan could see the frown grow in Klink's eyes. "But, Herr Standartenführer, I cannot leave — "

"You will leave, Klink," Danziger said smoothly. "Or I will have you shot."

Klink blinked in surprise and his eyes met Hogan's; Danziger was far too upset over the loss of the slave laborers.

"Well, if you put it that way, sir," Klink said, and scribbled a note that he passed to Red Hand. Red Hand glanced at it and cranked up the radio. "I will be happy to — "

The telephone clicked.

Klink was silent for a moment. Then, "Gruber?"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant?"

"You heard the order. Get a truck and a dozen guards. I will join you shortly."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant." Then, "Herr Kommandant, where are you?"

A faint smile touched Klink's lips. "You will find out in a few minutes." He hung up the telephone, and took the headset from Red Hand. He held it to his ear.

Hogan had to suppress a smile at the expression on LeBeau's face as Klink launched into what sounded like flawless French.

"LeBeau?" Hogan asked.

LeBeau shook his head to clear it. "It sounds like a code, Colonel." Then a pause as he listened. "He's asking about the guests we liberated." Then, as Klink scribbled another note and handed it to Baker, "Let me know what you find."

Baker dialed an outside line. Klink removed the headset, and picked up the telephone again, speaking in German this time.

But it might as well have been French or some other language Hogan didn't know. As far as he could follow the rapid conversation, Klink was talking about a book? Obviously a code of some sort. After a few minutes, Klink hung up.

"Well?" Hogan asked.

"The passengers are safe and already dispersed," Klink said. "The trucks are being stripped. Danziger will never find anything."

"And the other call?"

"To Hamlet. I need your help."

"Anything."

"Someone will need to man the radio at all times. No absences for any reason."

"Done."

Klink nodded. "A message will come in on your normal channel." Behind him, Red Hand, Kinch and Baker took notes. "They will ask for Papa Bear in German and say they have a message from William; they will use the English name, not the German one. Immediately after the word 'William', they will say in English, 'Avoid what is to come'. They will then give a list in German, words or numbers. When they are finished, they will end with a single word in English. It can be any word, even goodbye."

He turned to the three men taking notes. "Be extremely careful with the beginning code. If they do not say 'William' or use other than those five specific words in this order, 'avoid what is to come', cut the connection immediately and tell me."

"Trouble?" Hogan said.

"Trouble."

Klink was silent for a few moments and then stirred. "You'd better get some rest. It might get busy later on." He glanced at the men still staring at him in wordless shock. "I'll leave you to clean up the mess."

Hogan nodded and cradled his arm gingerly.

Klink picked up his mask and gloves and started toward another tunnel.

Miller cleared his throat loudly. "Uh . . . Kom . . . Stage?"

Klink turned toward him, expressionless.

"The last few minutes . . . Sir, they never happened," Millersaid in a steady voice.

Klink nodded gravely and left.

And Hogan, despite the ache in his arm, the dizziness that kept blurring his vision, and the fatigue that threatened to drop him where he sat, found himself smiling.

* * *

1 Mel Hughes: _Dress Rehearsal_.

2 Mel Hughes: _Dress Rehearsal 2: Encore_

3 Mel Hughes: _Dress Rehearsal _

4 The SS equivalent of a colonel.


	5. Chapter 5

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 5

It was late morning when Robert Hogan came out of Barracks 2. He turned his collar up against the cold with his right hand; his left, he kept cradled against his chest. A quick glance around the compound. Everything looked fine. He sat down on the bench, trying to look casual, though he felt far from it. He'd just spent what had to be the most uncomfortable night of his life.

With the help of Kinch, again, he'd managed to make his way up the ladder to the barracks nearly an hour after Klink's exit. It had taken that long for the shocked men to unwind from the night's surprises. Then, again with Kinch's help, he'd gotten out of the German uniform and into his pajamas. He wished he could have resented the attention he'd gotten, but the truth was he needed the help. Every movement, no matter how simple, started fires up and down his arm. He couldn't hide the pain from his men, and their worried looks hadn't eased his mind one bit.

Finally, they left him alone to get what rest he could. Which was very little. Not that he was awake either. His head, his mind, kept swimming. Every time he opened his eyes, even if he didn't move, he had to close them again quickly as dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. And that was the good part. The bad was the nausea. Thank God, he didn't get sick to his stomach. He didn't think he could take that! Not when even breathing made the pain worse.

Then the dreaming — or was his mind playing games with him? His fight with Gruner, the trucks, the Stage — all floated around in his skull. Even Binyamin. Then he'd felt the bullet go through his skull, not his arm. And there were bodies there. Not anonymous faces, but those of his men. That had shaken him awake. And he had lain there, shivering and bathed in sweat. He'd forgotten about his arm for a moment and tried to get out of bed. And groaned loudly as his head fell back on the pillow. He had to bite his lip as the pain continued to grow. And grow. That abscessed tooth was nothing more than a pleasant memory now. He'd never hurt so much before in his life

Dawn came slowly. He heard the truck returning — the truck with Klink and those guards. Why had it taken Klink so long to come back? The bridge was gone. Or did it just seem long?

Thinking made his head fuzzier, so he stopped. And had just lain there, half dozing. Eventually, he heard sounds from the common room, and, later on, Schultz calling for roll call. But no one came to get him. He must have drifted off because he didn't hear anyone come back in.

When he woke, his mind was much clearer, and the pain was a dull ache. And he was being watched. He blinked in surprise. The medic, Sergeant Frank Wilson(1), was sitting across from him. Wilson had grinned and said, "Good morning, Colonel."

Then Wilson started with the bandages and the probing. Hogan didn't like to admit it, but he'd actually cried out once. The door had started to open then, but Wilson kept whoever was on the other side of it out of the room. Hogan had sworn he'd keep from crying out again. And he hadn't, but it had taken every bit of will he had not to.

Wilson had been apologetic — and frowning. "A slight infection," he'd said in response to Hogan's question.

"Bad?" he'd asked.

"Well, not good," Wilson had answered.

Finally, the probing and the bandaging ended. Wilson gave him a handful of aspirin and told him to stay in bed. But Hogan didn't listen. Not when he'd remembered the Stage, or rather Klink. If HE could do it, then so could Hogan. Even if it killed him. Hogan had to laugh at that, attracting odd looks from his men as they opened the door.

He'd needed help getting dressed, getting shaved, and getting a bite to eat. But he'd be damned if he needed help walking out the front door.

And he didn't. He'd managed to walk a whole ten feet before sinking down on the bench outside the barracks.

So, here he sat, harboring his strength. And praying his arm would stop aching.

...

"Hey, Yeager!"

Big, brawny, and decidedly sullen Sergeant Virgil Yeager turned toward the voice.

"What is it, Stinky?"

"Have you heard the good news?" Stinky, also known as Private Alphonse Stickney, asked.

"Our tanks here?"

"Naw, not yet."

"Then it ain't good."

Stinky grinned. "You'll still like it. Who's your least favorite person here? Well, your second least favorite person here?"

"Right now, you. You're exasperatin' me, Stinky."

"Hogan, right?"

Yeager spat loudly and looked at him.

"Rumor has it he's hurt."

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy, unless it was Klink. What happened?"

"He got shot."

"Yeah, right."

"I heard that too," Corporal Lenny Liebowitz said, stepping up to the two men.

"How'd it supposedly happen?" Yeager asked.

"He got shot blowin' a bridge," Stinky said.

Yeager snorted loudly. "Yeah, right."

"No, I heard it too," Liebowitz said. "That noise last night — a bridge blew up. That part's right. Heard a couple of goons talking."

"Fine, the bridge went boom. What's that got to do with Hogan?"

"He blew it."

A loud laugh. "You two still buyin' that crud?"

"We didn't say we believed it," Stinky said. "But — "

"But, nothin'! Look, I told you before. Hogan's nothin' but a big con artist. Got everyone convinced he's some kind of hero. He ain't."

"But the guys who've been here awhile — "

"The guys who've been here awhile are protectin' their asses. They were told not to escape, and it was easier not to."

"But Hogan," Liebowitz started.

"Hogan's got himself a real sweet deal here. Extra privileges, extra food, even a girl. And he's nice and safe. He scratches Klink's back, makes nice, and gets away with anything. And he's got the rest of these losers believin' it."

"I don' know, Yeager," Liebowitz said.

"Lemme tell you one more time," Yeager said patiently. "You ever seen one of these tunnels? Didn' we crawl all over the barracks lookin' for one?"

"Yeah. But we're in one of the new buildings. Maybe they — "

"Maybe nothin'. You tell him, Stinky."

"They showed me one once. It was all caved in. Didn' go nowhere."

"See," Yeager said. "All talk."

"But they do know stuff," Liebowitz countered.

A loud snort. "Who don't? Hell, the guys from other camps said they had radios too. And people talk — goons, everyone. Look," he said patiently, "for half the stuff to go on like they said, Klink would have to be a real idiot. You seen him, you said, during that fire. Was he an idiot?"

"No."

"And Schultz pokes his fat ass into everything. He's no dummy either. So, unless you think they're in with Hogan . . . "

"Naw, they're krauts."

"You just remember that. As for Hogan, he probably tripped over his big feet, and is playin' it for all it's worth. Just somethin' else to tell the brass when they get here."

"You bucking for a promotion, Yeager?" Stinky asked.

"I'm buckin' for a meal ticket. Once the Allies get here, I figure they'll need someone who knows the lay of the land. Good pickings here. Women, gold, some real fancy digs. I want in. And that means Hogan's out. Got it?"

"Sure, Yeager," Stinky said. "We want in too."

"So, go pretend to make nice. We'll nail Hogan's butt good when the real brass gets here."

Stinky and Liebowitz strolled away as Yeager leaned against one of the barracks, his eyes on Hogan sitting on the bench.

"Admirin' the view, Virgil," said a slow, lazy drawl.

Yeager snorted loudly. "You buckin' for another whoopin', Clarence?"

"If it's someone else getting whooped."

Yeager grinned. "I got a few candidates in mind."

Sergeant Clarence Chaykin shook his head. "Not as long as Hogan's around. Or Klink."

"They won' be around forever. One of these days, our tanks are gonna push over these fences. And Hogan'll get what's coming to him. So will Klink."

Chaykin grinned and walked away.

* * *

1 "Operation Briefcase"


	6. Chapter 6

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 6

Berlin:

Major Hans Teppel(1) sighed as he looked at his office. Or rather the remains of his office. Last night's bombing raid had hit the building adjacent to his office and crumpled in the wall on the right side. At least there was still a wall of sorts, and the telephone worked, and the lights. Which was more than most places could claim.

His telephone rang loudly. He had to step over some debris to get to his desk. "Teppel here. Heil Hitler!"

"Guten Morgen, Herr Major."

Teppel froze; it was a voice from his past, one he'd thought never to hear again. "Morgen," he managed to say.

"I know it has been some time since we last spoke. How is your family? Your Aunt Viktoria? No improvement in her hearing?"

"Nein. She is still as deaf as ever."

"Thank God! I need your help. I'm in trouble, not at my best, and I need to get out of Berlin. Out of Germany."

"I don't know . . . "

"Hans, I'm desperate." There was an undercurrent of rare panic in the man's voice.

"All right. Meet me at the zoo, near the lion's den at twenty-three hundred."

There was a sharp laugh at the other end. "The lion's den. Appropriate. I'll be there."

The telephone went dead, and Teppel slowly replaced the receiver. He straightened his chair and sat down, suddenly sweating. A voice from his past, one he'd thought had died — Mike Anders.2) Not his real name, of course. Just as Hans Teppelwasn't really his. He'd been born Robert Jared Morrison in Milwaukee. But since 1937, he'd been here as Hans Teppel, now a major in Abwehr. And for most of that time, he'd been on his own, passing information to the Allies. Anders, an OSS agent, had been one of the men he'd passed information to. But Anders had disappeared during the campaigns in the east early last year. And that had left Teppel with one contact in Germany, Papa Bear.

Now Anders had come back from the dead and needed help to get out of Germany. The trouble was that Papa Bear, or rather Colonel Robert Hogan of Stalag Luft 13, couldn't help. Papa Bear's primary contacts were in Hammelburg, which had been nearly destroyed by fire a few weeks ago, and Düsseldorf, which had been nearly smashed to rubble by bombings. Hardly of use to someone trying to get out of Berlin. And Teppel's resources were even scarcer.

But there was someone whose resources seemed to be limitless. And as luck would have it, Hogan did know him. Which was good, as Teppel had no direct way of contacting him.

Teppel rose abruptly. He needed to get to a radio and fast. He walked to the door and opened it. And shut it. His boss, General Walter Schellenberg was at the end of the hall. Unlike his former boss, Admiral Wilhelm Canaris(3), Schellenberg was SS and loyal to Hitler. But Canaris was in prison or dead, and Schellenberg was here. And Schellenberg hated Teppel's guts. Teppel waited until Schellenberg returned to his office and left quietly.

Teppel walked slowly through the bombed-out streets, picking his way over rubble, avoiding the few people he saw. He was heading toward one of his bolt-holes, Hell # 6 he called it; literally a hole created by several collapsed walls. He might as well call it # 2 now; he was down to just two of them. The rest had disappeared in the bombing raids, like much of the city. Now, save for the outskirts of the city, there were streets filled with shells of buildings, barelyfunctioning services and people who were desperately longing for the end of the war. Except for the megalomaniac in charge and those who still followed him.

Teppel was breaking his rule by going to # 6. He had made it a point to use his radio only at night, only when he could be assured of being relatively undetected. But now, with Anders back, he had to talk to Papa Bear. Or rather, he had to talk to someone that Papa Bear could reach and he couldn't — the Stage.

As he walked, he recalled his last, his only meeting with the Stage. It had been completely unexpected, even nerve-wracking. It had been a long morning in late January, and he was tired, physically and mentally — the Allies had bombed again the night, and the day, before.

_Major Hans Teppel picked up the telephone. "Abwehr 587, Heil Hitler."_

_The fact that he hadn't heard it in nearly two years mattered not a whit; he'd have recognized that voice anywhere. "Major Teppel! Perhaps you do not remember me; this is Wilhelm Klink from Stalag Luft 13. We met — "_

"_Two years ago when I came to question some of your prisoners," Teppel replied, his voice hard and cold in attempt to mask the admiration, and terror, he suddenly felt. "What can I do for you, Kommandant? Is there someone you wish me to interrogate?"_

"_Oh, no, Herr Major. I am in Berlin on business, but I'm mixing in some pleasure. I have been looking up some old acquaintances. So far, I have had the pleasure of speaking to at least five Luftwaffe and Abwehr officers, but, unfortunately, none of them are able to meet me for lunch. I thought perhaps you might oblige me. We could discuss . . . oh, any number of interesting things."_

"_I am very busy, Kommandant — "_

"_Surely, Herr Major, one of my old acquaintances would oblige me . . . "_

"_All right, Kommandant. When and where?"_

"_I have my staff car. I can pick you up in an hour? While you wait, perhaps you can think of a restaurant that still has real butter?"_

_An hour later, an hour filled with useless foreboding, Teppel descended the stairs, noting the waiting Kommandant's good-natured smile and the fist clenched over the ever-present riding crop. _

"_It is good to see you, Herr Major. It has been almost two years, has it not, since you came to question my prisoners? I remember thinking that I wished everyone who interrogated my prisoners conducted himself as you did. You knew how to strike fear into their . . . "_

_The pompous speech died as Klink held the car door open. Checking the back seat first, Teppel got into the car. Klink slammed the door and went round to the driver's side._

"_Colonel," Teppel began as Klink got into the car._

"_Silence," Klink hissed, starting the car. The change in tone was not lost on Teppel. And he was amazed that not only had Klink's voice changed, but his whole bearing had also changed, right in front of Teppel._

_A few silent minutes of driving slowly through the bombed-out, debris-filled streets passed. Teppel swallowed uneasily, but said nothing._

_Finally, Klink spoke in a tone soft, and dangerous, "We have an awkward situation, Robert Jared Morrison."_

_Surprised by the statement and that Klink knew his real name, Teppel made no reply. He looked at the hawk-like profile. _What am I thinking? Of course, he knows my name. He's the Stage.

"_I have a dilemma, Major — you. Thanks to you and a certain list, I am alive. For that, you have my gratitude."_

_Teppel opened his mouth to say, "You're welcome," or to protest that it was nothing; he didn't know which — but it didn't matter._

"_But I also have a problem. You know something you shouldn't. The one other time someone knew something they shouldn't, it ended everything I and those who followed me have worked for. And it cost me," his hands unconsciously gripped the steering wheel harder, "more than you can know. _

"_Fortunately," Klink went on, his grip relaxing, "most of the recently informed are close enough to me that I can monitor them, and control them if need be."_

_Teppel almost laughed. "Control Hogan? After what I saw . . ." His voice faded as Klink looked at him. _

_Klink continued as if he hadn't interrupted. "But you, Herr Morrison, are a very different situation. As you know, my organization has, like I, come back from the grave. And I am extremely loath to leave its survival, and mine, in the hands of someone I cannot control."_

"_Yes, but you know about me," Teppel said with a raised brow. "We're even."_

"_Not quite. If you are lost, the Allies lose one man. If I am lost, there is a network of men and women whose lives are, at best, disrupted, at worst, at risk — a network whose size and scope you would not believe."_

"_I see." Well, no one in Berlin trusted him either. Why be surprised? He looked out the window. "So what happens next? You shoot me in the head and throw me in the Wannsee with a bag full of lye?"_

"_Killing one of the men who saved my life would not be very generous of me," Klink said with open amusement. _

"_Then what did you have in mind?"_

"_My solution is much simpler — you disappear."_

"_Disappear? Just like that?"_

"_Just like that," came the echo._

_Teppel shook his head, baffled. "Leave Germany? I don't think my boss would like that."_

"_If you mean Mr. Donovan(__4)__, I believe I can convince him."_

_Teppel found himself breathing harder. He forced himself to calm down. "I don't think I want him convinced."_

"_Major, you act as if the matter is open for discussion." He looked at Teppel for a long moment. "You surprise me. After all these years, many of them on your own, I would think you would welcome the chance to leave."_

"_You didn't leave when you had the chance," Teppel retorted. "You stayed."_

"_This is my home, not yours."_

"_You don't know me, St — Kommandant," Teppel replied_ _acidly. "I have no home. There's nothing in America that's home to me; everyone I loved is either dead or they don't care about me anymore. I wasn't born here, I'll grant — but all the same, I've been fighting as long as you have, maybe longer. This is my fight as much as yours. You know who I am; then you should know I can help you."_

"_With Canaris out of the way," Klink said, "you are no longer assured of an ally in Abwehr. Schellenberg hates and distrusts you. You are a liability to yourself and more importantly to me. To put it bluntly, you are of no use to me."_

"_Fine. Throw me out with the fish bones," Teppel said coldly. _

"_Were you expecting a reward?" was the soft question._

"_No. Hell, no." His laugh had an edge that surprised him. "I'll be lucky if I'm not tried for war crimes. A reward is the last thing on my Christmas list. I guess I just expected you to understand."_

"_What, exactly, should I understand about the man who talked Hitler into bombing London? Is that your character reference?"_

_Teppel deflated. He looked out the window again. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. "Do what you want; you will anyway. If you want me out, fine. But I want confirmation from Donovan before I leave; I don't leave messes for others to clean up."_

_Klink looked at him. "Why did you have London bombed?" was the surprising question._

"_You're the genius; you figure it out. Just drop me here. My appetite's gone."_

"_Jared, look at me." Klink spoke in English, and the tensile strength in his voice dared Teppel to do otherwise . . . and made Teppel wonder how he could ever been so foolish as to think of this man as the idiotic Kommandant. "I don't spoon-feed my agents, I won't spoon-feed you. Answer my question."_

_Teppel sighed heavily. "The Luftwaffe was decimating the British airfields. Another month or two bombing the southern areas — where all the airfields were — and the RAF would've been out of business. Canaris was desperate to take the pressure off the airfields. I . . . I told him if he could convince Hitler and Göring to bomb London, the RAF would have time to recoup its_ _losses. And there was little significance to London militarily."_

"_Little significance?" Klink replied so gently that it took a minute for the venom to sting. "Tell that to the dead. On both sides. Bombing London provided the excuse for the bombing of Berlin, Hamburg and all the other countless cities."_

"_I know. I see the dead in my dreams," Teppel whispered. "They're waiting for me every time I close my eyes. It was the right thing to do to save England. If I didn't believe that with everything in me, I wouldn't have done it. But it makes it no easier to live with."_

"_No," Klink agreed. He pulled into an open parking space near the Adlon Hotel. There were quite a few empty parking spaces. Fuel was reserved for military vehicles and buses, and soon even the buses would stop running. "St. Paul said that no one is given more than he can bear."(__5)_

"_I can bear it," Teppel said, his eyes empty._

"_Hmmm. I hear the cheese here is real, and not half bad," Klink said in a Kommandant-like voice. Then, "If you have any messages for me, send them to Papa Bear. Do not contact me directly."_

_The sudden change caught Teppel off guard. "You're . . . you're letting me stay?" _

_A nod. "You have been on your own a long time. I wanted to be certain that you hadn't, as a friend of mine would put it, become a loose cannon. And, I wanted to understand you."_

"_Kommandant, with all due respect, if I were a loose cannon I would've left years ago. I'm on my own, but I've been following orders for years. As to me, I could have turned you in the moment you returned to Stalag 13, and gotten a medal. I don't want your gratitude. All I want is for you to understand . . ."_

"_I understand more than you think," was the soft reply. "I have sins of my own to dream about. However, some advice — be careful, and watch your back. One day you will have to go. Just make certain you do not leave it too late."_

"_Thanks."_

_Klink shook his head. "No thanks are necessary. I hope this is a decision that neither of us will regret."_

"_You won't; I promise."_

_Klink looked at him a long time before saying softly, "But you may." Then he looked at the street. "And once again the curtain rises . . . "_

_Kommandant Wilhelm Klink got out of the car. "Of course, Herr Major, we do not dine well at Stalag 13. I don't believe we've seen real cheese in weeks. But each of us must make sacrifices for our glorious Third Reich!"_

And Teppel had, regretted it that is. Sometimes, he wondered why he was still here. However, if he hadn't been here, then Anders would have no one.

Now, inside his bolt-hole, he made the call to Papa Bear.

...

Kommandant Wilhelm Klink was eating lunch in his quarters. Or what passed for his lunch — potatoes, again, in a watery stew with some meager vegetables. At least the wine made it slightly more palatable. He took another bite when a slight scraping to his right got his attention. As he watched, the trapdoor under his potbelly stove moved and LeBeau's head poked out.

"Bonjour, Kommandant. There is a message for you on the radio."

Klink lifted a brow. "For me?"

"Oui, Kommandant. From Snowman — uh, Major Teppel." LeBeau got out of the tunnel. "If you would, sir. The tunnel complex is empty except for us."

Klink got up and tossed his napkin on the table. "Danke, Corporal."

LeBeau moved out of the way as Klink walked over to the trapdoor. He glanced at the Kommandant's lunch and made a face at it. Was that all Klink had to eat? Maybe he could do something to improve it. LeBeau took the plate and went into the kitchen.

Klink reached the radio room; Kinch looked up at him.

"Good morning, Kommandant," Kinch said with a smile. "Teppel will be calling back any minute now."

"Did he say what he wanted?"

Kinch shook his head. "No, sir. But it has to be important. He never calls during the day. Well, almost never."

Klink nodded. "How's Colonel Hogan?"

"Resting."

"Good."

The radio squawked loudly. Kinch held the headset to his ear. "It's him, sir." He gave the headset to Klink who slipped it over his ears.

"Go on," he said curtly.

"I need your help," Teppel said quickly. "An OSS agent named Anders is in trouble and needs to get out of Germany fast. Might be hurt too."

Klink frowned. "I am not in the habit of . . . " Then again he had that other little problem to resolve. "All right," he said to Teppel's relief. "Listen carefully. You will be contacted sometime today — do not leave your office for any reason, regardless of the time. Understood?"

"Yes."

"All right. The recognition code will be, 'I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb.'(6) Your response will be, 'I have shot my arrow o'er the house and hurt my brother.'(7) The final response will be, 'My soul is full of discord and dismay.'(8) Do you understand?"

"Yes," Teppel said.

"Good. Return to your office."

"Danke."

Klink took the headset off. "I need an outside telephone line."

Kinch connected the wires to their duplicate of the camp's telephone system. He watched as Klink dialed the number himself. And shook his head as Klink launched into an incomprehensible exchange. Well, not really incomprehensible. He just couldn't believe that the conversation he was hearing was the one that was really going on. He found himself wondering how many other calls they'd overheard the Kommandant make where the surface conversation was just a cover for something else.

Klink ended the call and Kinch took the telephone from him.

"Anything we should know about, Kommandant?" Kinch asked.

Klink shook his head. "No, not yet. By the way, I am expecting another call within a couple of hours."

"Yes, sir."

"Danke." Klink nodded and left the radio room.

Kinch found himself shaking his head again. He didn't notice it last night — well, it was a mite hectic — but Klink seemed to have no trouble navigating the tunnels alone. Which left Kinch wondering how often the Kommandant had used them when they weren't looking.

* * *

1 "Bad Day in Berlin"

2 L. Cash: _New Beginnings_, used with permission.

3 Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, the head of Abwehr and a member of the Resistance, was arrested in 1944 after the attempted assassination on Hitler and sent to Flossenberg concentration camp. Schellenberg replaced him.

4 General William Donovan, the head of the OSS, the precursor to the CIA.

5 1 Corinthians 10:13

6 William Shakespeare: _Hamlet_, Act 4, Scene 6

7 Ibid, Act 5, Scene 2

8 Ibid, Act 4, Scene 1


	7. Chapter 7

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 7

Kommandant Wilhelm Klink hung up the telephone with a sigh. This was what he'd been afraid of — Danziger was on his way here. A couple of hours, possibly three. He wasn't surprised, not after he'd learned what his people had found in the torn-apart trucks. Which left him with two options, neither one of which he liked. The question was, which did he dislike less?

The first option depended solely on him — he could leave. Permanently this time. The second depended on the cooperation of others.

He swiveled around in his chair. The first would also leave the camp at the mercy of Danziger and his SS goons. God knew what Danziger would do if he discovered that Klink, and Binyamin, had left.

That wasn't true. He had a good idea what Danziger would do, and it wouldn't be pleasant for anyone in the camp. And he couldn't take Hogan and the others with him. There wasn't enough time. And that was assuming Hogan was in any condition to travel. As far as he knew, it was the first time Hogan had been shot. The wound wasn't serious, but it was painful. And he knew better than anyone how hard it was to pretend that nothing was the matter when all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and stay there. Which may leave only the second option. He could always leave later — if he were still alive that is.

However, the second option depended on whether others would be willing to lie for him. Worse, it involved doing something that revolted his very soul. He'd done it before. And he'd sworn he would never do it again. Ironic. He had a reputation for keeping his promises. Except for the ones he made to himself. Those . . .

Enough thinking. There were too many risks to others by leaving. Danziger, from what he'd learned, had grown more brutal with the years and wouldn't stop until he slaughtered half the camp's population. And the death of the innocents here revolted Klink's soul even more than the second option.

He stood and walked to the door. "Fräulein Hilda, I need Colonel Hogan, Sergeant Schultz, Sergeant Langenscheidt, Captain Gruber and you in here now."

Hilda looked at him with surprise. "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

Klink closed the door. He needed to gather his thoughts before the others arrived.

...

Newkirk burst through Hogan's door, startling him as he lay on the bunk.

"Colonel, Klink wants to see you now!" Newkirk managed to gasp.

"Okay. Help me up, will you?"

Newkirk with unexpected gentleness helped Hogan sit up. As the rest of the men came in, he helped Hogan into his jacket.

"Any idea what gives?" Hogan asked.

They shook their heads.

"Schultz is getting Langenscheidt and Gruber as well," Kinch said.

"Okay. Listen in," Hogan ordered as he left the room.

Hogan found a gathering in Klink's office when he got there. Hilda, Sergeant Karl Langenscheidt, Captain Fritz Gruber and Sergeant Hans Schultz stood or sat in front of Klink's desk.

"Glad you could join us, Colonel Hogan," Klink greeted.

"What's up, Kommandant?" he asked as he sat down next to Hilda.

Klink was silent for a moment, and then looked soberly at them. "Schultz, I know that Sergeant Langenscheidt had . . . forgotten a few things about his trip to Paris(1) with you and Colonel Hogan." Langenscheidt visibly started. "But I need more than that this time. Do you trust him?"

Schultz looked intensely at Langenscheidt, who gulped nervously, but kept still under the scrutiny. "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant. I trust him."

Klink nodded. "Colonel Hogan, Fräulein Hilda has also conveniently forgotten to tell me a few things about you and your men. And once in awhile, she has done more than forget. Do you trust her?"

Hogan looked at the startled young woman. "Yeah, I do."

Hilda managed a faint smile, which Hogan returned encouragingly.

Klink nodded, his eyes on the nervous pair before him. "I need you both to do more than forget some unimportant details, Fräulein Hilda, Sergeant Langenscheidt. I need you to lie convincingly to the SS colonel who will be here shortly. To be blunt, my life depends on it. Probably the lives of others. Do you think you can?"

Langenscheidt and Hilda looked at each other, then at Klink. There was indecision on both of their faces.

"If you cannot, please tell me now," Klink said quietly.

"Herr Kommandant," Langenscheidt began. "We, I, do not . . . I do not know you. Now. You are . . . " He shrugged.

"I know," Klink said gently. "And right now, I have no explanations to give you. If you agree, you may learn more. As for Fräulein Hilda . . . "

"I can lie." A hard look at Langenscheidt. "So can Karl."

Langenscheidt looked at Hilda with surprise, then at the others waiting for his answer. They trusted him to do what they thought was right. Klink trusted him. Klink had requested that Langenscheidt not be transferred away from the camp, as had happened with the other Luftwaffe personnel. If it hadn't been for Klink, he might be dead. "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant. I can lie."

Klink nodded. "Then we proceed. Schultz, the men on the back gate and the front, do you trust them?"

"Kaufmann and Reinwald are on the main gate. The back gate has Krieger and Hirschfeld. Ja, Herr Kommandant, I can trust them."

"Good. You are going to get a truck from the motor pool. Then I want you to tell the men at the gates that we are going on a work detail by the destroyed bridge. Make certain they understand that if anyone asks, I have been planning this trip since this morning. Understood?"

Schultz nodded.

"Go. I will fill you in later."

Schultz left as Klink turned to Hogan. "Colonel Hogan, I need you to organize a work detail. I want your team and half the men who had been on Miller's detail a couple of days ago. I also want another two or three men dressed as guards. Have them wait in the motor pool. It might be a good idea if you take men who were at the unmasking; I believe some of the men on the work detail were there as well. And take Private Wagner with you."

Hogan lifted a brow.

"I will explain later. Please, go.

Hogan nodded and slowly exited the room.

"Now," Klink turned to the others and switched to German, "here is where it becomes more difficult. There is an SS colonel named Danziger coming, along with Hauptsturmführer Schiff. I am hoping that it will only be those two, but I do not know. Danziger doubts me, but he does not know anything. Not yet. He will ask to see all the men on the work detail, along with their files. Fräulein Hilda, you will supply the files and answer any questions. Except for the Wagner file, everything will be in order. He may not question it, but if he does, play along with him. Tell him you had nothing to do with it. That it was put there without your knowledge. He must trust you, even if he does not trust me.

"Hauptmann Gruber, make certain that Langenscheidt is the one who brings the prisoners on the detail to see Danziger. After he fails to find what he wants here, he will demand to go the bridge. If he does bring men in addition to Schiff, you must convince him that if there is something wrong, I will be suspicious if he shows up with extra guards. You must convince him to go in my staff car and with only yourself and Langenscheidt as the escort. Schiff can also go, but no more. If the only way you can get him to agree is to cast doubt on my loyalty, do so. Again, Danziger must trust you.

"Fräulein Hilda," he turned to her, "after they leave, call me immediately on the walkie-talkie and tell me who is going to the site. Understood?" His eyes took them all in.

They nodded.

"Herr Kommandant," Gruber asked, "if there are others with him, if I cannot convince him to keep them here, then what?"

A sad smile. "Then, Hauptmann, I'm afraid you will not see me again. I will leave if he insists on bringing more men with him. The risk is too great to stay."

Though Hilda and Langenscheidt were startled, Gruber nodded soberly.

"You can change your minds," Klink said gently.

Hilda shook her head firmly. After a moment, Langenscheidt did as well.

"Good. Now," he stood, "begins our little play."

...

Hogan was waiting with some nervousness beside the remains of the Adolf Hitler Bridge. Hilda had called. Danziger and Schiff had left camp in Klink's staff car. Gruber was with them and Langenscheidt was driving. Hilda had said that Danziger was convinced that Klink was a traitor, and he would prove it. Danziger had wanted to bring more men with him, but Schiff had weighed in on Gruber's side, agreeing that more men would make Klink suspicious. So far, so good. But Hogan still didn't like it.

"Please relax, Robert," Klink said softly.

"Relax. Right."

A faint smile. "You used to be more adventurous."

"That was before I got shot! Besides, you're the one who keeps telling me to stop being so cocky." His hand lifted to his elbow; that arm of his was getting sore again.

"True. But to use an expression of yours, all bases are filled."

Hogan smiled. "All bases are covered. And I hope so." He looked around again. Most of the Adolf Hitler Bridge had disappeared, leaving jagged edges butting out about twenty feet over the deep ravine. A few hundred feet below, the debris from the bridge was barely visible in the tangle of rocks, shrubs and snow. Conceivably, the bridge could be rebuilt, but who'd do it?

"That should keep people away," Hogan murmured.

"That was the idea," Klink said.

Hogan grunted and turned back to the men. Four of his men were there; he'd left Kinch behind to man the radio — just in case. Half of the men from the original work detail, including some from last night, and Binyamin Weiner were spread out, filling holes and leveling the road running by the bridge. Guarding the prisoners were Schultz, Samuelson dressed as a Wehrmacht corporal, and the Mulcahy twins dressed as Wehrmacht privates. Samuelson and the twins had volunteered for the assignment. Well, the twins were always ready for a mission, more so since they learned who Klink was. Samuelson, he was the surprise. He'd never gone on any of their missions before. Hogan nearly turned him down, but then Hogan thought about it a bit more. Maybe it would do Samuelson good to see some action. Though, if the truth were told, Hogan didn't have a clue what that action would be. Olsen was a mile up the road, ready to warn them when Danziger was near.

Klink looked around when the walkie-talkie sounded; he answered it.

"They're coming," Olsen's voice said softly.

Klink tossed the walkie-talkie back into the truck. "Bring the men in for a break."

Hogan gestured and the prisoners came over to the still standing guardhouse. "Showtime, fellas," he murmured. "Everyone stay cool. Take your cues from Klink." He almost smiled at the startled expressions on the faces of the six men who didn't know what was going on. Well, there was no time to explain things now. Not to mention, he wasn't sure what to explain.

Hogan looked down the road; he could just make out the staff car coming toward them.

But Klink was walking out onto the remains of the bridge. Hogan followed him. "Don't get too close to the edge. It's not as stable as it looks."

"I won't."

Hogan watched as Klink stooped down, looking at the damage. "What are you doing?"

Klink stood. "Can it be rebuilt?"

"What?"

"Can it be — ?"

"Who the hell cares?"

Klink raised a brow. "I do."

"Oh, for . . . It was your idea to blow the damn thing. Now you want to rebuild it?"

"Well, not immediately. Later."

"When later?" Hogan started. And stopped. The staff car, driven by Langenscheidt, had stopped in front of the bridge.

Gruber got out, followed by Schiff who looked around with a cynical smile. Then another man who, if he had been a few years younger, could have been a poster boy for the Aryans. Tall, blond, handsome. Or he would have been if he didn't have that deep scar on his right cheek. His eyes flickered over Hogan and Klink almost dismissively. Then they turned to the work detail. His eyes began to glow, and Danziger smiled. Hogan found himself shuddering at that smile.

That smile turned on Klink. "Is this he, Schiff?" Danziger asked in German.

"Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer," Schiff answered. "Kommandant Klink."

Danziger walked closer. "The man who can personally identify every man on his work details. Such a memory, Kommandant." He smiled again. "Don't you agree, Schiff?"

"Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer."

"A man with such a memory is wasted here, Schiff. Surely, he belongs somewhere else. Another post perhaps? Would you like another post, Kommandant?"

"I am content here, Herr Standartenführer," Klink said.

"Of course, Kommandant. Here, you can play your games, hide from battle, protect worthless prisoners. And Jews. Is that correct, Kommandant?"

Klink stayed silent, his eyes fastened on Danziger.

Danziger turned around suddenly. His arm jerked out, his finger pointing at Binyamin. "There, Schiff! There! Do you see that worthless thing? If you look on his arm, you will see the numbers 300303 tattooed there. My birth date. A gypsy woman told me those numbers were special. And they were. For years, those numbers brought me luck. They protected me. They protected him. But no more."

Just as suddenly, Danziger turned again. "You lied, Kommandant. A Jew-lover," he spat. "Or is it simpler than that? What did he promise you? Gold? Gems? I'm afraid he cannot deliver them, Kommandant. His friends have taken them. But I will find out where they have gone."

Hogan's eyes narrowed. Danziger was as loony as a tune. Or was he? Gold? Gems? He shouldn't be surprised that Danziger had those things. Other SS men had also looted their way through Europe. But now they were gone, and Danziger thought that . . .

Wait a minute. The convoy. Danziger had been apoplectic when the convoy didn't report to him. Of course! He'd hidden that stuff in the convoy. And he thought that Binyamin had . . .

Hogan stopped thinking as Danziger turned to Klink again.

"Or perhaps you already know, Kommandant. He told you about the trucks. Perhaps you had something to do with the trucks disappearing. It does not matter. I will get the truth out of both of you. First you. Then," he turned back to Binyamin, "you."

Hogan didn't see Klink's hand move. One moment, Klink's right hand was empty; the next, there was a gun in it, pointing at Danziger's head.

"Danziger," Klink said softly.

Danziger turned.

There was time for a split second of fear to cross Danziger's face before Hogan saw the blood spurting from the hole in Danziger's forehead. As Danziger fell, Klink's hand lowered and he turned toward Schiff.

Not particularly surprised, Schiff looked down at Danziger's body. "That is one less for the Allies to take care of."

"Shall I make it two?" Klink said softly.

"Nein!" Binyamin interrupted hurriedly. "He . . . he saw me escape. He let me go."

"Do not concern yourself, Herr Wagner," Schiff said with a faint smile. "If the Kommandant had wanted me dead, I would already be dead." He looked at Klink with mild surprise. "How did you know?"

"Your vague description of the escaped prisoner was the first suspicion. When you did not demand to examine the prisoners for tattoos, that was another. I made inquiries; you have friends, Schiff."

"So do you, Herr Kommandant. To my surprise, given your reputation."

Klink bowed slightly.

Schiff looked down at the body. "The wound. It looks like it came from a rifle. Interesting. I have heard of such weapons. Something to do with the barrel?" He glanced at the other side of the ravine. "A sniper firing from there?" He pointed. "An assassination?"

Klink nodded. "Danziger had many enemies."

Schiff nodded. "And, of course, there is no way to find the sniper, given the destruction of the bridge."

"None. Though Sergeant Schultz heroically sprayed the terrain with machine gun fire."

Schiff nodded. "I agree. That is how my report shall read. If you will permit me to use your car and return to camp, Herr Kommandant, I will send my men back to recover his body. If there is a nearby cemetery, I would prefer to bury him there."

"As you wish."

"Then I will take my leave, Herr Kommandant. Auf Wiedersehen."

Klink nodded. And said through tight lips, "My condolences to Frau Danziger and the children."

Schiff looked surprised. "I will offer them, Herr Kommandant."

"Danke," Klink said softly.

Schiff clicked his heels together and bowed to Klink. Then he turned to Binyamin. "May you have a long life, Herr Wagner."

"And you, Herr Schiff."

Again the cynical smile, and Schiff returned to the staff car. Langenscheidt, as pale as a sheet, and Gruber, nearly as pale, got inside. In moments, the car was out of sight.

Klink stirred. "Schultz, if you please, the woods." Klink gestured toward the other side.

Schultz nodded, and walked out onto the remains of thebridge. The silence was shattered by his machine gun firing.

"Now what?" Hogan asked.

"We go back," Klink said in a tired voice. "Schultz can stay with the body until the SS arrives."

Hogan looked at Klink's face and frowned. Klink was far too quiet now. It was as if . . .

"You didn't have a choice," Hogan said. "You had to do it."

"Did I?" Klink said softly.

"Danziger was a monster. Schiff was right; one less for the Allies — "

"Judge, jury, and executioner," Klink said.

"He was gonna kill you. You know that. After he tortured you. He got what was coming to him."

Klink looked at him sadly. "It's still so easy for you, isn't it? Everything is still so black and white. Danziger is a monster; you eliminate the monsters. He was a man, Robert, with a wife and family who will grieve for him."

"Their tough luck."

Klink shook his head. "Be very careful, Robert. The world is not as simple as you think it is. Death should never be simple. When it is, when we forget that these are human beings we're killing, then we all become monsters."

Hogan shook his head. "I don't buy that. We're the good guys, and — "

"The end justifies the means?"

"Yeah, it does."

Klink shook his head and walked away.

Hogan stared after Klink. _What was with him? Why did he make things so complicated?_

Hogan shook his head and turned around to see the others looking at him, waiting for him.

"Get in the truck, fellas. We're going back to camp."

Slowly, soberly, the others walked back to the truck.

* * *

1 "Art for Hogan's Sake"


	8. Chapter 8

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 8

Hogan was tired, his arm was sore, and the barracks were too noisy for his aching head. After a monotonous dinner — not even LeBeau's efforts could help the food — he didn't feel like hanging around. Sergeant Wilson had told him to go to the infirmary before he went to bed; he might as well do it now.

Hogan walked across the quiet compound. The guards were walking slowly on their rounds. Some of the prisoners were heading for the recreation hall. The dusk air was cold and damp. Was it going to snow again, or worse, rain? He hoped not. He was tired of winter and the war.

How far were the Allies? The Allies hadn't reached the Rhine yet. And they still weren't anywhere near Dusseldorf, which, like the entire Ruhr valley, was under the control of Field Marshall Walter Model's Army Group B and its 300,000 men.

Hogan walked into the quiet infirmary. The lights were low, too low, for his mood. But, as far as he could tell, most of the sick men were already sleeping.

"Evening, Colonel," Wilson greeted quietly.

"Well, I'm here, Wilson," Hogan said in an irritable voice. "Where do you want me?"

Wilson smiled. "Back there; it's out of the way."

Wilson led the way to the back and behind the screen. He pointed to the cot next to Binyamin's. The younger man was reading, a small desk lamp illuminating the book he held.

Binyamin smiled at Hogan. "Good evening, Colonel."

"Evening," Hogan said.

"If you'll have a seat, Colonel," Wilson said. "I'll be right back." He ducked into the supply room just past the cots.

"Interesting book?" Hogan asked.

Binyamin shook his head. "One of your men gave it to me. I do not like the lady."

"What's the book? . . . _Gone With the Wind_? You don't like it?"

"I know little American history. This does not show a nice picture of it."

"Well, the movie was good."

"I have never seen a movie."

Hogan looked at him. "Never? You're kidding?"

"Mein Vater . . . my father was very orthodox. He thought movies were too . . . I do not know the word . . . leichtfertig."

"Frivolous," Hogan translated.

"Frivolous . . . Mein Vater, my father thought movies were too frivolous for a rabbinical student."

"I've always liked them. Especially westerns."

Wilson came back.

For the next few minutes, Hogan suffered through his ministrations. And when he was through, Hogan felt even achier than before. He also saw Wilson's frown. "Okay, what gives?"

"You've got an infection, Colonel. No infection's good."

"It'll go away."

"I hope so. But I think I'll clean that wound with some alcohol. Be right back."

"What? Hey, wait a . . . "

However, Wilson had disappeared into the supply room again.

"Infections are serious, Colonel," Binyamin said. "I have seen strong men die from them."

Hogan managed a shrug. "I've had them before."

"Have you been shot before?"

"No," Hogan admitted.

"That is a shock to the body. It takes long to get over it."

"He didn't," Hogan murmured.

"Wilhelm?"

Hogan nodded, and kept silent as Wilson came back.

Somehow, Hogan got through it without making a fool of himself. He didn't pass out — though he prayed he would. He didn't scream — though he wanted to. He did groan loudly a couple of times, and he did cry out, though he managed to turn it into a whining complaint.

"Sorry, Colonel," Wilson murmured. "If I didn't, well, you really don't want this turning into something worse."

_Worse? What could be worse?_ And caught himself. He knew a lot that could have been worse.

"Colonel, I'd rather you spent the night here. I'm gonna wantto look at that arm again later. And probably change the bandage a couple of times. Okay?"

Hogan nodded. God, he felt shaky! "Let my barracks know. But keep it simple."

Wilson smiled. "No problem, sir." He stood. "Get some rest."

"Yeah, right," Hogan muttered under his breath. He shifted uneasily on the cot and looked over at Binyamin. He managed a faint smile. "Looks like we're bunkmates."

"I do not mind."

"Actually, you could satisfy my curiosity," Hogan said. "How do you know Klink?

A faint smile. "You would like to hear my boring life?"

Hogan laughed faintly. "I don't think it'll be boring."

"At first, it was. Very, very dull.""

"Do you mind?"

Binyamin shook his head. "No. It is odd to . . . " He shrugged. "I was seven when I meet Wilhelm. It was 1917 und . . . and I was visiting my sister, Amalia. She was much older — twenty-eight years. A rich widow. Her husband died before the war. My father did not like it, but Amalia's house became a place for soldiers, a very, what is the word, a very smart group. She had a large library and gave books out. Wilhelm was on leave from the war and would visit. I liked him. He told stories."

"Stories?"

"Ja, yes. About magic and heroes. My father would not have liked the stories. But he did think family important, so he let me visit Amalia often. I think," he said with a faint smile, "he hoped Amalia would return to her strict upbringing." A sigh. "He was disappointed. Vater did not approve of Amalia's friends, especially her Gentile friends. And Wilhelm was a close friend."

"How close?" Hogan blurted out.

Binyamin looked at him in surprise.

Hogan winced. "That was . . . Forget it."

"Do you wish to know if they loved each other?"

"I, uh . . . "

Binyamin smiled faintly. "When I was thirteen, I asked him."

"You did?"

"Rabbinical students are taught to be curious. And I was more than most." Binyamin smiled. "Wilhelm and I, we talked long. I did not understand why they did not marry. I did not understand when he said they did not love each other that way." His head shook. "It was confusing. I understood more when Amalia married Rudolf."

"You're kidding."

"Nein . . . No. Wilhelm was the best man." The smile turned sad. "My father did not forgive Amalia. Rudolf was Catholic, and Amalia became one when she married. Vater did not allow me to see her. But I did. She was happy with Rudolf, more when her son was born."

"And Klink?"

"When he was home, he would spend time with Amalia and Rudolf. Wilhelm knew more about music and books than anyone. It was worth my father's anger to learn. Since I was a child, I have wanted to learn."

"Sounds like a nice life."

"It was for many years. Then Amalia died in a car accident. And Hitler came, and my life, the lives of all Jews, changed. Wilhelm tried to talk Vater to leave Germany. Father refused, told him not to go back. Rabbi Baruch Weiner was very stubborn. He did not change his mind about Amalia. And he would not leave Germany."

"What happened to your father?"

"I do not know. Wilhelm has not said about my parents and Rudolf. I believe they are dead."

"You don't know that," Hogan protested.

"It is expected. I saw the death camps with Danziger — Auschwitz, Treblinka, Majdanek. That is where Jews went. If my parents did not go to those camps, they went to other camps and died. My parents were not young."

Hogan stared at him. "Death camps? What death . . . Majdanek. I know that name. Why? . . . Sam — that's it! Sam . . . He was transferred to Majdanek late in 1942."

"Sam?"

"That's not his real name — we just called him that.His real name was Vladimir Minsk(1)."

"Russian?"

"Yeah." Hogan smiled. "And the best tailor this side of Savile Row." Another smile. "Haven't thought of him in months. A natural con artist. Probably has everyone eating out of his hand."

"I am sorry, Colonel Hogan," Binyamin said. "But your friend is dead."

"What?"

"Majdanek was a death camp. And a prison for Soviet prisoners. The difference between the Jews and the Soviets is that Jews died quickly in the gas chambers. The Soviets died slowly of hunger and disease."

Hogan stared at Binyamin. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Hitler believes Slavs are untermenschen, not human, like Jews. Why keep untermenschen alive? Was your friend young?"

Numb, Hogan shook his head.

"Your friend is dead, Colonel. The men at Majdanek were skeletons, much worse than any man here. With diseases that would kill strong men. No one could live there for two years."

Hogan couldn't say a word; he just stared at the younger man speaking so casually about death. Finally, he found his voice. "Death . . . you said death camps."

Binyamin sighed. "You do not know. Why should you? Most Germans do not know. The Nazis are efficient, Colonel. Those they do not use, they kill. Men, women, children, old, young . . . To Hitler, untermenschen are good only to work or die. I saw records. They killed tens of thousands at Majdanek; Auschwitz, hundreds of thousands. I have heard whispers of millions. God knows how many Soviets died in their camps. Tens, hundreds of thousands? The numbers make no sense. Can we see such a slaughter? No. But . . . "

Binyamin looked at Hogan. Hogan was staring at him with a look of . . . Binyamin didn't have the words to describe it. Horror was too trivial a word. Binyamin turned away.

* * *

1 "The Informer"


	9. Chapter 9

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 9

Berlin:

Hans Teppel looked at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. It was nearly 2100 and he still hadn't heard anything. Worse, his boss, General Schellenberg, was entertaining an old crony of his, Standartenführer Weiss from Leipzig. They'd gone to dinner together and were now indulging in some brandy in Schellenberg's office. And Teppel had a nasty suspicion that Schellenberg was the reason he hadn't been contacted yet.

Teppel heard murmurs outside his door and straightened. Then he heard hearty laughter and even louder goodbyes. Maybe now . . .

To his surprise, the door opened and he saw Standartenführer Weiss in full SS regalia staring at him from the door.

"Major Hans Teppel?" Weiss asked as Teppel snapped to attention.

"Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer. Heil Hitler! May I be of service?" Behind Weiss, he could see four alert SS guards. Fear twisted Teppel's insides; Weiss had a nasty reputation dating to his time in Berlin. Was this Schellenberg's way of getting rid of him?

Weiss strolled into the room, his eyes roaming curiously. "You have had some damage."

"Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer."

"The fortunes of war." Weiss sighed exaggeratedly. "A pity." He closed the door behind him.

"Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer. Would you care for some brandy?"

Weiss, to Teppel's surprise, roared with laughter. "I believe I have had enough brandy, Teppel. Nein, I am more interested in conversation." He settled himself in a chair and nonchalantly crossed his ankles. Genially, he waved Teppel back to his seat.

"Conversation, Herr Standartenführer?" Teppel sat on the edge of his chair, wondering if he could overpower the taller Weiss if he had to. But there were those guards outside . . . He began to turn the ring on his finger, the ring with the poison . . .

"Jawohl, Teppel. It is rare that I have the opportunity forsome pleasant conversation." He sighed loudly. "The fortunes of war again. And the burdens of command."

_Was he drunk? If he was, he hid it well. What do I say?_

But Weiss didn't seem to need a reply from him. "Ja, the burdens of command. The stories I could tell. Why, I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb."

Teppel froze for a moment, and stopped playing with the ring. Then he stood and walked over to his liquor stock. He poured himself a drink, gathering his thoughts. "I, too, have stories, Herr Standartenführer. Of my service to the Fatherland. Once, I shot my arrow over the house and hurt my brother."

"Ja, command and the war will often cause pain," Weiss said solemnly. "Sometimes, my soul is full of discord and dismay."

Teppel slowly turned around and looked at Weiss, waiting for him to make the next move.

Weiss nodded approvingly. "Sehr gut, Teppel. Now, I understand from a theatrical friend of mine that you need a package moved. Where is it?"

"At the Tiergarten zoo; I will take you."

"Good. First, a warning. Two of the men outside are loyal SS, and they are killers. Do nothing to make them suspicious. You will not be able to warn your package; he will think you betrayed him. Do you understand?"

Teppel nodded.

"One more warning." Weiss stood and leaned closer. "Beware of Schellenberg."

"I know," Teppel began.

"Nein, you do not," Weiss said softly. "Schellenberg is not as loyal to Hitler as you think. He, Himmler and several others are trying to negotiate a separate peace with the Allies.(1)"

Teppel stared at him. "I don't believe it."

Weiss smiled grimly. "It is true. Himmler has already tried once. But Himmler is also a coward; he dares not cast suspicion on himself while Hitler is watching him. If anything goes wrong, if Hitler becomes suspicious, those men would not hesitate to bring down others, guilty or not. Do you understand?"

Teppel nodded.

Weiss smiled briefly. "Then, as my friend is fond of saying, letthe play begin."

Weiss opened the door and swept through, followed by Teppel.

...

Mike Anders was shivering in the cold, dark night. Cloudy as it usually was, the nearly full moon was hidden from sight, and with the lack of lights anywhere, the very shadows were threatening. If he were a man to believe in ghosts, he would be extremely nervous. But he didn't, so he had nothing to be nervous about. Right? Yeah, right.

But he was nervous, and he was scared. Since he'd lost touch with the OSS last year, he didn't know whom to trust, whom to turn to. And sometimes, he'd trusted the wrong person — which was how he'd gotten hurt.

Thank God, he'd managed to get to Berlin. Thank God, Teppel was still alive and able to help. Maybe his luck was changing. Maybe . . .

A noise spun him around. There was a man approaching, a man in uniform. Anders waited until the man got closer. Then he breathed a sigh of relief. It was Teppel. He walked over with a smile . . .

Then he heard the sound of a weapon being cocked.

"Halt!" cried a voice behind him.

Anders started to turn. But his treacherous right leg gave way under him, and he fell heavily. Several pairs of arms reached for him and soon held him fast. A tall SS colonel walked over and, with a smile, snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. Still, Anders tried to break free, and was rewarded with a rifle butt into his back. He fell with a groan to his knees.

A gloved hand reached under his chin and tilted his head up. "You have spirit," said the colonel. "I enjoy questioning men with spirit. It makes it so much more entertaining when they break." The colonel straightened. "Felsenthal, Loeffler, bring him."

Two beefy SS men grabbed his arms and dragged him to his feet. Anders still tried to fight them, but was nearly immobile in their heavy grip.

Then he saw Teppel. Bitter bile rose in his throat. _So, he finally turned. Why? What happened? Any fool can see how the war is going_. _Now, he betrays us . . . Betrays me?_

Teppel stared at Anders emotionlessly. Then he turned and walked away.

The colonel turned to the other two men. "Return to headquarters."

"Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer." The two saluted and disappeared into the darkness.

Anders was dragged, half carried toward a car. They threw him inside; he hit his head against the door. Dazed, he felt them secure his handcuffed hands to a rod behind the front seat. The SS colonel got in beside him. The other two men got into the front and, in moments, the car started.

"Cigarette?" the colonel asked. "No?" He lit it and took a long drag. "American, very good. As you know, Herr Anders."

"You have the wrong person," he bluffed, though his insides were turning somersaults. "My name is Baum."

"Your name is Mike Anders, though I doubt that is your real name. You and I will be spending some time together. We should get acquainted. Can you fly an airplane? A small civilian craft holding no more than five?"

Anders kept silent.

"No answer?" An elaborate sigh. "Very well. Then let us talk of 'graves, of worms, and epitaphs, make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.'(2)"

Astonished, Anders raised his head and turned to look at Weiss.

Weiss smiled. "Teppel didn't betray you, Herr Anders. We have a mutual friend in common; he entrusted you to me." Weiss reached over and unlocked the handcuffs. "Cigarette?" He proffered his gold case as Anders rubbed his sore wrists.

Still stunned, Anders took a cigarette and let Weiss light it.

"First, we need to get you better. Some food, a few days' rest and a doctor."

"Who are you?" Anders finally asked.

Weiss smiled. "That mutual friend — he calls me Hamlet. Now, rest; we have a long ride ahead of us."

Anders sank back against the seat, a wave of relief sweeping over him. Hamlet, one of the Six who reported directly to the Stage. Never in his wildest dreams could he have hoped for this. Then . . .

_How in hell did Teppel manage to contact the Stage?_

* * *

1 True. Several books dealing with 1945 mention that Himmler was trying to negotiate a separate peace for himself and others, including Schellenberg.

2 William Shakespeare: _Richard II_, Act three, Scene two


	10. Chapter 10

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 10

It was quiet in Barracks 2. Some of the twenty men were already sleeping. Most of the others were on their bunks, reading or talking in quiet voices. Hogan's crew — LeBeau, Carter, Newkirk and Kinch — were still sitting at the table, waiting for the door to open, waiting for Hogan to return.

LeBeau shook the coffeepot. "There is still a little left. Anyone care for a cup?"

The others shook their heads as Newkirk said, "Save it for tomorrow."

LeBeau grimaced. "It will taste like tar tomorrow."

"Yeah, but with the coffee rationed, it's still better than nothing."

"Or that ersatz stuff the Germans drink," Kinch added.

LeBeau shrugged and put the pot back on the stove.

The rattle of the bunk hiding the ladder to the tunnels sounded loudly in the quiet room. All eyes went to the tunnel entrance. Baker grinned as he saw the others staring at him.

"Trouble?" Kinch asked.

"No. Lt. Miller is spelling me for a few minutes."

"Miller?" Newkirk asked. "What for?"

"Seems he wants to go into radio after the war," Baker said. "Thought it would be good practice."

"After the war," Newkirk said in a dreamy voice. "The three loveliest words in the English language."

"Yeah." Carter sighed. Then he straightened, his eyes going wide. "Hey! I never really thought about it before."

"You never think at all, Andrew," Newkirk said as the others laughed.

"No," Carter said. "I mean it. What are you gonna do after the war, Peter?"

"Sleep for a month, take long soaks in a hot bath and eat every kipper I can find."

"No," Carter persisted. "For real. What are you going to do? Stay in the RAF?"

Newkirk opened his mouth, and then clamped it shut. Every once in awhile, the kid made him uncomfortable. Stay in the RAF? Hell, he'd only joined because his kid brother did. Mum was so proud of Hal. So, what was he going to do but join as well? Fat lot of good it did either of them. Stay in? Not bloody likely. But, do what? What was he really good for? It was a disturbing thought.

"Maybe for a bit," he found himself saying. "Until I figure it out." He looked at Carter. "What about you? Go back to Bull Frog? Do the drugstore thing?"

Carter looked unusually somber. "No," he said slowly. "With Mary Jane gone . . . There's nothing in Bull Frog."

"Your folks are there," Kinch said quietly. "And your kid brother and baby sister."

"Yeah, they are. And I miss them. And I can't wait to see Kenny and Betsy Sue. But . . . I don't know . . . After all this, Bull Frog . . . " His head shook. "I don't know. And being a pharmacist . . . I'll have to go to school. College and then a pharmacy school. That costs money."

"They passed a bill last year," Kinch said. "Help GIs with tuition, books and things if they want to go to school after the war. That's what I'm doing," he added.

"School?" LeBeau asked.

"Yeah, finish college."

"And do what?" Baker asked.

"Well, before the war, I read about this thing they had at the World's Fair in New York. Something called television."

"Never heard of it," Newkirk said.

"Like radio with pictures. They said there's gonna be one in every house someday."

Newkirk wasn't convinced. "Right."

Kinch smiled. "Something new, something that I think will be big. I'd like to get into it. And there's another thing that's gonna be big one day. Something to do with calculating machines. There's a company called IBM that's working with things like that."

"You invest in it, Kinch?" asked Paul Hammond from a nearby bunk.

Kinch grinned. "Yeah, I did. Last I checked it was doing pretty good."

"Oh, Kinchy's going to be rich," LeBeau kidded.

The grin grew. "You never know. What about you, LeBeau?"

A faraway look in LeBeau's eyes. "My own restaurant on the Champs Elysées," he said positively. "I've dreamed about it . . . well, forever, I think."

"That'll take some money," Newkirk said.

"I can borrow it from Kinch," he said brightly as the others laughed.

"Me, I'm going home," said Carr from a bunk.

"Your folks have a farm, Lester. In Georgia?" Walter Red Hand asked.

Carr nodded. "Yeah. Their own too. Not sharecropping like most colored(1) folks. Good land. Good people there too."

"Me," Hammond said softly, "I'm going to school."

"Doing what?" Carter asked.

"Teaching." He laughed. "When I was a kid, I hated school. But after being here, and taking some of the classes we've had . . . Never thought I'd say it, but I like school. Want to do it right too. Teach kids like me who don't like it."

There were nods from the others in the barracks.

"What about you, Baker?" Red Hand asked.

"Don't really know," he said thoughtfully. "I'll have to think about it. But I do know one thing. After the war's over, I'm going to ask to stay here awhile."

"You're what?" from LeBeau.

"You're nuts, mate," from Newkirk.

Baker smiled. "Yeah, sounds like it. Trouble is . . . Well, I've been here over two years. Boring, scary, exciting. And, well, I don't know . . . Going from war to peace to home, that suddenly . . . I guess I need time."

"You've got folks in Atlanta, Rich. And a younger brother and sister," Kinch said.

"Yeah, and I want to see them. But I need to do this, I think. Kind of get used to peace again before going back. Especially since I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Think they'll let you?" Newkirk asked.

Baker shrugged. "Why not?"

"Maybe we could all stay," Carter suggested. "For a bit anyway. Make up our minds after the war ends."

"Maybe," Newkirk said.

"What do you think Hogan will do?" Hammond asked.

"Heck, he's a flyer," Kinch said with a grin. "He'll keep flying." The grin grew. "You should see his face whenever he hears about those new planes, even the German ones, the jets. His eyes light up. He can't wait to get into one of those things."

"Hey, I just thought of something!" Carter exclaimed. "What if they want to ship him to the Pacific?"

"Why would they do that, Andrew?" Newkirk asked.

"Well, that war's not close to being over. They need flyers. Maybe they'll give him back his old group."

"I think that would probably tick off the new CO," Kinch said dryly.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"And after years in this place, I don't think they'll ship him off to combat," Baker added.

"Maybe. Hey!" Carter brightened. "Maybe we can all stay together, until it gets sorted out."

"Hell," Newkirk said as he walked over to the sink. He got himself a cup of water. "They'll probably just ship us out without even asking." Odd, the thought suddenly hurt.

"But that's not fair," Carter complained.

"Life's not fair, mon ami," LeBeau said sympathetically. He also turned away from the others. Much as he wanted the war to end, he didn't want to lose what he'd found in this godforsaken camp. No, life really wasn't fair.

A loud, cheerful tapping on the door startled them. LeBeau walked over and opened the door.

"Evening, gents," Sergeant Wilson said with a smile.

LeBeau looked behind him. "Where's Colonel Hogan?"

"He's not coming," Wilson said. And grimaced at the uproar he caused.

"What do you mean he's not coming?" Newkirk out-shouted the rest of the men.

"If you'll give the man a chance to say a word," Kinch interrupted.

"Thank you," Wilson said exaggeratedly. "He's spending the night in the infirmary. That's all."

"Why?" Kinch asked.

"It's nothing much," Wilson said in a light voice. "He's picked up a mild infection. I can keep an eye on him, change the bandages, that sort of thing."

"We can do that," Newkirk said.

"Yeah, you could," Wilson said with a slow drawl. "If you took the time to finish any of those courses I was giving. You didn't, so you're not."

"Now, look, mate . . . "

"Sorry," Wilson said firmly. "None of you has the training. None of you knows what to look for. And he can do without you guys fussing over him."

"Who's fussing? Okay, okay," Newkirk said. "We're fussing. But . . . "

"No buts."

"Are you sure it's a mild infection?" Kinch asked.

Wilson nodded. "Yeah. He just needs the rest."

"Who doesn't?" Newkirk murmured.

"If it gets worse," Kinch started.

"Shouldn't."

"If it gets worse," Kinch said again. "Then what?"

Wilson sighed. "I do what I can."

"Doctor Bauer in town?" Baker asked.

Wilson shook his head. "His supplies aren't better than ours."

"We could ask for an airdrop of penicillin," Carter suggested. "We've done it before."(2)

The others nodded.

"Look, don't go borrowing trouble," Wilson said. "He's just got a mild infection. Probably be gone tomorrow."

"Yeah. Just make sure you let us know, mate," Newkirk said.

Wilson smiled tolerantly. "Will do. Goodnight."

Glum goodnights followed Wilson out.

"What do you think, Kinch?" Baker asked.

"I think he's telling us what the Colonel wants us to hear," Kinch said. "But I also think he thinks it is a mild infection."

"So it's okay," Hammond said.

"My mom," Carter said hesitantly. "They didn't tell me at first . . . But she got an infection when the baby was born in January. She got really sick."

"Infections can be bad," Red Hand agreed.

"I had an uncle," Kinch said soberly. "He died when I was six. A blister that got infected." _Though it wasn't only the infection. He didn't get it treated at first; the colored hospital was too far away. _

Kinch turned to his bunk and started pulling off his clothes._ And when it got too bad, the whites-only hospital wouldn't take him. He died on the way to the colored hospital._

The others were also preparing for bed. Outside, the guards were knocking on the doors — lights-out in ten minutes. Kinch climbed up to the upper bunk over the tunnel entrance.

Baker was going down the ladder to the tunnels. "See you later, Kinch," he said softly.

Kinch nodded; he'd spell Baker in a couple of hours. He turned over, facing the wall, and drew the thin blankets over his shoulder. But he wasn't sleepy. Tired, yes, but not sleepy. He'd almost forgotten about his Uncle Ivan — his mother's older brother and his godfather. Hence, his own middle name of Ivan.

Funny, before his uncle's death, he'd hated the name Ivan. But after the funeral, he announced to his startled family that from then on, he'd be Ivan to his family and closest friends. He also changed his mind about moving north to Michigan where his father's sister lived. His mother wanted to go, his father was neutral. It was his decision whether they went. He was only six, but he'd learned what racism was. And he knew that was the real cause of his uncle's death. He didn't want to leave his friends and the only home he'd ever known. But after his uncle's death, he'd hoped it would be better up north. And they moved that summer.

In some ways, in many ways, Michigan was better. There weren't any whites-only places nearby. None officially that he knew about. But he knew there were places where coloreds weren't accepted or allowed. The racism was subtler than in the South, but it was still there. But James Ivan Kinchloe was ambitious and smart. He was going to school, was going to be somebody. And when they moved to Detroit after his daddy got achurch there, he knew he could do it. Even got to work for the telephone company. The pay was good, and he'd made friends there. A few were even white, though he wasn't always sure if the friendship was real or only, to use an expression, skin-deep.

Weird. He had to come to a German POW camp to be fully accepted as a human being. Here in racist Germany, he wasn't judged by the color of his skin. And not only by Hogan and his guys, but also by the Germans he was closest to. Klink and Schultz didn't care he was colored. And neither did the underground people they met. At least, he didn't think so. Like most coloreds, he had a second sense about that kind of thing.

He nearly laughed. In Nazi Germany, for the first time in his life, he felt truly equal to the whites around him_. My God! How do I go back? And do I want to? _

_..._

Corporal Peter Newkirk was also wide-awake. _Damn Andrew! Why did he have to dredge up bad memories?_

What was he gonna do? He'd had fun bumming around before the war. Tried his hand at everything — theatre, magic, road shows. A regular nomad he'd been. A lark, he'd had. He'd never told anyone, including Hogan, but a few of his larks were less than legal. He had to admit that if it weren't for the war, he might have wandered more and more into the underside of British life. His mum had been afraid of that. His sister Mavis too. Both had been so glad, and proud, when he'd joined the RAF. Of course, he had to when Hal joined. After all, Hal was his kid brother, and if the kid did that, how could he not do it? He'd look like a ruddy fool. Or a coward. Now, all things considered, he'd made the right decision. Though he'd been mad as hell when he was shot down and captured, he'd actually done better here in this POW camp than he would have in the RAF. Here, he was doing something useful. And he'd had fun, well for the most part, doing it.

But what now? Or rather, what later? After the war? What to do after he got out of here? He didn't have a bloody clue. It was a thought that kept disturbing his sleep until it was his turn to man the radio.

...

Sergeant Andrew Carter fell asleep fast enough, but his slumber was broken by dreams of Mary Jane(3) and his hometown. Mary Jane was his first love — his only love — from the time he'd first seen her in seventh grade. Her father, who worked for the Forest Service, had just been transferred to Bull Frog from Washington D.C. A big strapping man, he loved the outdoors and the area. But Mary Jane and her mother didn't. They were big city folks, and the tiny town was boring and intimidating. They probably would have left within a year, except that Mary Jane's mother had a stroke. The town gathered around the strangers and pitched in to help the shaken father and the stunned girl. Andrew's mother would go over once a week to help the family, and he'd go too. Finally, he worked up the nerve to talk to Mary Jane; he'd been far too shy to do so in school. After that, all thoughts of leaving the small town were forgotten.

Mary Jane adapted after the shock wore off, and she and Andrew would have long talks on the way to and from school. After a while, she allowed Andrew to carry her books as they walked home, and Andrew knew she was the only one for him. Mary Jane still dreamed of big cities and the excitement they held. But it was okay because Andrew did too. Sort of. The little town was hide-bound in many ways, and sometimes smothering. And there wasn't much to hold anyone's attention, save for farming or lumbering. Andrew already knew he didn't want either of those. His parents tolerated his dreams, thinking he'd outgrow them. Mary Jane, she understood. It was her encouragement that prompted him to go to Mr. Swenson, the town's pharmacist, for a job. Andrew had always enjoyed playing with chemicals and things, especially the ones that went bang. And Mr. Swenson didn't discourage him. Andrew knew it took money to go to college and to a pharmacy school. Money he didn't have. His grades were decent enough, but not good enough for a scholarship. So, he worked in the drugstore, and saved his money.

And there was Mary Jane. She was the practical one. Andrew wanted to get married right after high school. "No," she'd said. It took money to be married. Money he needed to go to school. There was time. They were young, in love, and they had the rest of their lives ahead of them.

Or so they thought. Well, it turned out not to be. Mary Jane's mother died, leaving her a small inheritance. She'd taken it and went back east to visit some cousins. She came back, more impatient with the town. More impatient for Andrew to go to school. And he would have. Except he was drafted.

Mary Jane was thrilled every time she saw him in uniform. And she wanted to get married right away. But this time, Andrew held back. He didn't know what was going on in Europe, but he'd seen and heard enough to worry. And he found himself too busy to have a wife. The Army kept sending him to schools and camps once they learned of his interest in things that went bang.

Then the war came, right before he was going home for Christmas. The Army let him go home, but on January 2, 1942, they sent him to England for more training.

He'd never forgotten his goodbyes. His folks were proud and scared, though they hid it. Mary Jane was just scared. She'd buried her head in his shoulder and kept crying. But Andrew wasn't sure if she was scared for him or herself. She'd talked about joining the WACS or getting a job in a defense plant. All of that stopped a few months later when her father was seriously injured in a logging accident. And shortly after that, Carter was shot down.

He'd gotten a few letters from Mary Jane. But it was his folks who told him that her father had died. And told him that the town was suddenly hopping with activity. The war effort needed lots of lumber, and lumber company executives were always around. A few weeks later, Mary Jane sent her letter, telling him she was marrying someone else. His folks sent him a letter as well. One of the company men was taken with Mary Jane, and his manners, money and big-city ways swept her off her feet. She'd closed the home her parents had left her and gone off with him to get married.

Andrew was wide-awake now. God, how it had hurt when he'dgotten that letter. And he'd thought that if he went home, he could find her. The guys in the barracks tried to talk some sense into him, but he wanted to leave anyway.

Until he met Mady(4). She had been sweet and sympathetic, and, he blushed in the darkness, loving. But then she left, finally getting permission from the Nazi government to go home. By then, Andrew had come to realize that leaving the camp wouldn't have done anything to his relationship with Mary Jane. The Army would just have sent him where they needed him. So, he was glad he'd stayed in the camp. Here, he felt useful. Here, he was needed. That felt good. Few people needed him, including, it seemed, Mary Jane.

Which was why he was staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping. What would he do after the war ended? He didn't know. But he did know one thing — he would never again live in Bull Frog

...

Corporal Louis LeBeau found himself tossing and turning so much that he expected Newkirk in the upper bunk to complain. And he wasn't sure why. He, unlike the others, did know what he wanted — his own restaurant right on the Champs Elysées. And he even knew where he wanted it, just down the street from the Arc de Triomphe. A perfect location. Before the war, he'd talked to the owner of the property, an elderly widow, and told her of his dream. Madame Mathieu had been impressed. The price was dear, but he'd anticipated that. He'd received an inheritance from his favorite uncle — that was the down payment. He was going to borrow the rest from a bank. The capital outlay would have been the highest cost. At first, his employees would be family. His mother would be the hostess, his young brother the busboy, and his sisters would be the waitresses. His sisters' fiancés would be in the kitchen with him, both of them chefs, though not as good as he. And Rachelle . . .

He turned over in his bunk.

The day he was going to the bank, war broke out, and his plans, his life, were put on hold. He'd been in French Air Force in his youth and was still in the reserves. When war came, he found himself in an airplane. He'd even been captured for a few weeks but had been freed by the armistice. And he returned to his beloved Paris to find it occupied by the Germans. That's when things really went wrong, with the restaurant, with Rachelle, with his life. He joined the Free French and not long afterwards, found himself in Stalag 13.

Thanks to a certain cocky, self-assured American, he was more useful as a prisoner than as a soldier, though there had been a few times when he didn't think so, times when he'd nearly left.

Now, the war was nearly over, and he would eventually leave for good. But so much had changed since he'd made those plans. The Germans had killed his younger brother a few months after he'd arrived at Stalag 13. His sisters had married their fiancés not long after the war broke out. He knew that Marie had lived with their mother in their Paris apartment until the Germans forced them out. They then moved in with Marie's father-in-law, a quarrelsome old man. Louis's mother had died; he'd heard that. But he had no idea where Marie, a widow with a four-year-old son, now lived. Danielle had moved to Marseilles where her husband, missing a leg after Dunkirk, had relatives. The last time he'd heard from them, he'd learned that they'd had twin sons. But that was almost two years ago, and he had no idea if they were still in Marseilles.

Then there was Rachelle . . .

He turned to face the wall. He'd never told anyone about Rachelle, not even Peter. Rachelle — his very practical wife(5). Though they hadn't lived as man and wife since 1940. Their families had known each other forever, and he and Rachelle had grown up together. It had always been expected that they would marry. And one day, they did. Rachelle loved him, he knew that. What he didn't know was whether he loved her. Not that he was unhappy; he wasn't. They had much in common, and she was as excited about the restaurant as he had been.

Then the war came and he was gone, and she returned home to her parents. And he found himself in places he'd never been and surrounded by temptations he'd never noticed before. And he succumbed to those temptations. He always felt guilty after he did, but not guilty enough to stop. When he finally went home, Rachelle knew, but she never said anything. Perhaps that was the problem; she never fought back. And he began to think that she didn't care.

Their last goodbye had been unpleasant. That's when she told him she was moving to Lyons to her sister's home. That's when she told him that she was taking their religion more seriously. And he'd been upset with her, with their marriage. After he was captured, she had written him every couple of months or so. But after a year, the letters stopped. By that time, he didn't care. He'd found other girls to write to, and strangely enough, here in this prison camp, he'd even had other girls to love. But as the end of the war came closer, he found he was losing interest in the girls who were friendly to him, and his thoughts started to turn to Rachelle. Where was she? Was she alive? Was she happy? Did she think of him at all?

Maybe he was finally growing up. Maybe he was finally beginning to realize that regardless of the way their marriage started, the vows they had taken meant something. And finally, in the dark, drafty wooden building, he realized he loved his wife.

* * *

1 In this time, blacks would refer to themselves as "colored", as in NAACP — National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. Whites would use the word "Negro", which superseded the world "colored" by all races after the war. And we all know the word that racists used back then and now.

2 "Is There a Doctor in the House?" and "That's No Lady, That's My Spy"

3 "Request Permission to Escape"

4 Ibid

5 LeBeau mentions his marriage when he's alone in "Happy Birthday, Adolf"


	11. Chapter 11

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 11

Hogan was bathed in sweat, shaking and shivering. He was so cold, so very cold. Except for his arm where he'd been shot. That was burning . . . burning . . .

...

"_Wilcox, get out of here!" Hogan yelled at his copilot. "I'll try to hold her steady." Smoke was already filling the cockpit._

"_Colonel, you can't control it by yourself. There's too much damage!"_

"_Just make sure the rest of the men are out. Go!"_

_Wilcox ducked out of the cockpit and moments later, as Hogan battled the controls, was back at the entrance. "They're all out, Colonel. Come on!"_

"_Okay." Hogan yanked the earphones from his head. "I'm right behind you."_

_Wilcox nodded and was gone. As Hogan got to the open door, a wall of flame appeared from the back of the plane. The plane bucked like an unbroken horse. Hogan fell against the side of the plane. The metal skin was hot, burning him through the uniform. Sweat poured down his face. Oddly, he wasn't afraid. The plane careened wildly, and time, which had slowed, now sped up. The plane was starting to dive. He had bare moments, not even seconds, left, before the plane took him down with it. The plane bucked again and spun — and Fate, or God, made sure that he also spun, right out the open door. After the heat of the plane, the freezing night bit into him, stopping his breath for long seconds. His numb fingers found the cord and pulled. The opening chute jerked him up roughly as the nighttime sky burst around him. Flak. The greatest danger to an airman with a parachute. Now that he had time, now, he was afraid. Afraid that one of those deadly pieces of metal would tear through his fragile body. Afraid that the flak would find that billowing canopy above him and rip it to shreds. Afraid . . . _

_The ground hit with a vengeance. Human beings weren't meant to fly, Hogan thought as he fought to stay conscious. Look_ _what happened to Icarus when he tried to fly. His wings melted — he melted. And Hogan laughed. Laughed and fell silent._

_..._

_He couldn't breathe; the air was hot, thick. His skin felt like fire. And he shook; his teeth were chattering._

_Then he saw them — not just his men, but also others. Men, women, even children. And he knew them — faces from his past — friends, acquaintances, schoolmates. They were lying on the ground, their features locked in horror, blood pouring out of every pore._

_He backed away slowly and then turned, and ran. _

_The world changed. He was in a plane, a burning plane. His skin was on fire; he was breathing flames. The very air was burning. And so was he. Burning . . . _

_..._

_Stop! Hogan screamed as the SS herded his men into the truck. Stop! He tried to run to the truck, but his legs wouldn't work. The harder he ran, the further away the truck was._

_The engine roared into life, and smoke from the exhaust soon obscured the truck. Hogan could hear his men screaming, gasping as the cloudy poison enveloped the entire truck. The screams, the gasps, grew fainter. Then they stopped._

_Hogan, his legs now working, ran to the truck and threw back the tarp covering the back._

_LeBeau's lifeless eyes stared up at him from the bed of the truck. And Carter's. And Newkirk's. And Kinch's. And Baker's. All of them stared at him, with accusations in their dead eyes. Where was he, they asked? Why wasn't he with them? Why didn't he save them?_

"_Why didn't you save me?" asked a voice behind him. "Why did you let them take me?"_

_Cold crept over Hogan as he stood there, afraid to turn around as he recognized the lifeless voice._

"_You saved others. Why did you let them kill me?"_

"_I didn't know!" he screamed. "I didn't know!"_

"_But he did." _

_And Sam smiled. And from his mouth, issued a thick red stream. The stream flowed down Sam's body to the ground. Soon, the gray soil was saturated with red. _

_But the flow didn't stop. The flow thickened and stayed and grew higher._ _It reached Sam's shoes, his ankles. And it still didn't stop. It kept getting higher — up his calves, up his knees. It reached his waist and still, it didn't stop. _

_Hogan screamed as Sam's arms lifted and his hands, bloody claws, reached for Hogan. "You killed me."_

"_No! I didn't. I didn't know. He knew. "_

"_Who, Hogan? Who knew?"_

"_KLINK!"_

Hogan jerked awake.

_Sam. He's dead. And he knew . . . HE knew!_

Hogan, his eyes bloodshot, wild, sat up. His body was shaking from the fever. Pulling the blanket around him, Hogan staggered to his feet. Sweat poured down his face and he reeled among the cots in the infirmary. He was at the door and stumbling out into the cold.

...

Sergeant Hans Schultz was making his final tour of the camp. It was quiet now. The barracks were all shut; the lights were out. There were still a few lights on in the guards' barracks, and in the Kommandant's quarters as well. Soon, those lights would go out and . . .

Schultz caught sight of a figure, a blanket trailing after it, weaving erratically toward the Kommandant's quarters. Schultz frowned and hurried toward the figure. It looked like Colonel Hogan. What was he doing up at this hour? And why was he walking so funny?

Schultz walked faster.

Wilhelm Klink shut off the record player. A beautiful piece of music, that _Meditation_ by Massenet. It never failed to soothe his spirit. And his spirit needed soothing badly after the day's activities. Perhaps he could sleep with a little peace now; he was so very tired. He closed the top of the record player and walked over to the light switch.

The front door banged opened, startling him. Klink turned toward the door. It was Hogan, Hogan as Klink had never seen him before — hair disheveled, clothes rumpled, a blanket trailing the floor behind him, face flushed, eyes wild, body shaking uncontrollably. _Fever. He's running a fever. Infection from the wound_.

And behind Hogan was a worried Schultz.

Concern clouded Klink's voice, "Robert, you're ill." He walked over to Hogan and touched his arm.

Hogan threw off Klink's hand, nearly losing his balance with the vehemence of the gesture. "You killed him," Hogan growled menacingly. "You murdered him."

Klink winced. "It had to be done."

Hogan stared at him. "Had to be done?! And what about the others? Those untermenschen Binyamin called them. What about them? They also had to be killed? Murdered?"

Shock froze Klink. "Binyamin told . . . " He visibly pulled himself together as Schultz paled.

"So, you did know. When were you gonna tell me? Never?"

A tired shrug. "The time . . . " He straightened. "I'm sorry you found out this way, Robert."

"Don't you dare call me that, you murdering bastard! I was right the first time. You are a bastard, from a whole race of bastards! You and your whole sick Reich should be exterminated."

Klink's face was a frozen mask. "We are back to that again, are we? Germans are nothings, untermenschen! Fit for slaughter. Should I give you a pistol so you can take care of it yourself? The lives of millions of human beings dead in the gas chambers aren't enough for you? The lives of innocent women and children who are killed daily by your bombings aren't enough for you? The wholesale slaughter on both sides isn't enough death?"

"That's a war. A war you people started. Killings you began! And when the world knows about the others . . . They'll kill you all."

A grotesque smile. "Some Germans kill, and the whole race pays. Well, the winners of wars always write the history. And the history of this war will be littered with accusations and condemnations. Don't worry, Colonel, there will be enough hatred to satisfy even you."

"Don't you go high and mighty on me," Hogan growled. "Youkilled Sam as surely as if you'd shot him when you sent him to Majdanek."

_Now it made some awful sense. It wasn't the millions; it's the one._ "I tried to save him; I couldn't. I, we, managed to save some. Not enough." For a moment, his shoulders slumped. "I couldn't even save Binyamin." _Or the others I loved_.

"You didn't try hard enough!"

"I didn't . . ." Anger finally intruded. "I suppose the great Papa Bear could have done better. I'm sorry, Papa Bear, but this is war! People die, even friends!"

"And that's it? People die? You murdered Sam by sending him there. You knew what it was like. You knew about the others. You're a cold-blooded bastard, aren't you? You're all cold-blooded bastards. You murder and kill and — "

"Isn't that what you do, Colonel Hogan? Kill?"

"I don't kill innocents! We don't kill innocents. You krauts are the ones who do!"

"You don't kill innocents? Tell that to the babies and children caught in the bombs dropped on Berlin, Hamburg, Dresden and the other cities. Oh, yes, we Germans are unique," Klink said with angry sarcasm. "We slaughter just for fun. We kill those who aren't like us, those we don't like. We're not perfect, like the Allies." Resentment roiled inside him. "Like your esteemed ally, Stalin. At least he had the sense to hide the millions he slaughtered inside his borders where no one could see them."

"What are you talking about?"

"You didn't know your great country is in bed with a devil as bad as Hitler? He murdered millions of farmers, Ukrainians, among others, much more slowly than those the Nazis killed in the gas chambers. Starvation is not an easy death, nor a quick one. And now, he's the 'Uncle Joe' of the Soviet peoples. But he got there over the bodies of Christians, White Russians, Cossacks, other Slavs, and anybody, including fellow Communists, who dared to think that he wasn't God. And when this godforsaken war is over, he'll get bigger over the lives that his good friends, the Americans, will hand over to him. Since they'll be Germans or Hungarians or Czechs or others on the wrong side, it won't matter how many of them die.

"Or his own people. Your friend Sam was dead regardless. Stalin's paranoia is as irrational as Hitler's. He believes any Soviet who had the misfortune to be captured is a traitor. The poor men in the POW camps who had prayed for liberation had quite a shock in store for them when their troops came. Some were killed outright; others were sent to the front lines where the result was the same. The rest are enjoying their freedom in gulags — the Soviet concentration camps."(1)

"You're crazy!"

"I wish I were! Then there are the French. A splendid people who love good food and art. Despite Corporal LeBeau's fantasies, there are quite a number of Frenchmen who love having the Nazis around, and are just as eager to get rid of the Jews and others as Hitler and his ilk. Their glorious history is also littered with the lives of innocents. Hitler wasn't the first to invade Russia; that magnificent French hero Napoleon was. After killing countless others across the face of Europe, including Germans.

"Then there are the British with their vast empire. I will grant that some of them do a decent job. But talk to the Chinese about how the righteous British turned a nation into drug addicts in their quest for empire. And how do the peoples of India, Africa and the Middle East feel about them? How many countries have they drained of resources to enrich themselves? How many treaties have they ignored or rewritten when it suited them? And of course, there is still that inspired class distinction where the incompetents find themselves in power simply because they were born into the right family.

"And finally there are the Americans. Such a democratic people with high-sounding phrases like liberty and justice for all. Did you know, Colonel, that at the time your country held millions of Negroes in slavery, there was not one slave in any of German states? That Jews and Catholics were more welcome in the German states than in most American cities? That Germans provided for their old decades before your people heard of social security? Perhaps the next time you're in your country, Colonel, you might check out those schools, clubs, hotels, restaurants and neighborhoods where Catholics or Jews or Negroes are not welcome at any price.

"As to what the phrases liberty and equality really mean, you should talk to Sergeant Kinchloe or Sergeant Baker. Perhaps they can enlighten you on the liberty and equality they have as Negroes. Especially in the South, where looking at a white person the wrong way is a quick way to earn a lynching.

"Or you can ask Sergeant Red Hand about justice and property rights, or what the white man's word is worth to the Indians forced from their lands by the greed of the whites.

"Then you can ask Americans of Japanese ancestry where they spent the war. Men, women, children, herded into camps for the sole crime of being Japanese, and your Supreme Court said it was legal. And how many people profited when the Japanese had to leave homes, businesses, farms that they had for many years?

"And once this war is over, how will those enlightened Allies deal with the losers? The same way they dealt with them after the Great War? Condemning millions to suffering and death again? Yes, that will surely bring about a peaceful world in the future!"

Hogan stared at Klink, hearing, and not hearing the words. His head was pounding, his body felt like it was on fire, and he couldn't stop shaking. Klink's voice sounded like it was coming through a long echoing tunnel. Then he noticed the words had stopped and Klink was staring at him. Hogan tried to pull himself erect. But for some reason, the room was tilting. The floor was the ceiling and the ceiling was the floor. And somehow, it felt right.

Hogan's collapse stunned Schultz and Klink for a moment. Then Klink, as pale as if he'd been shot, was at Hogan's side, kneeling beside him. "Mein Gott, what have I done?" he murmured. "He's burning up. Carry him into the spare bedroom, Schultz, and get Sergeant Wilson."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant." Schultz picked Hogan up and headed for the guestroom.

Klink went into the kitchen. From an upper cabinet, he pulleda medical kit. _Fever. What else for a fever? Ice. Something to cool the body._ He got a deep bowl from a cabinet and emptied the ice trays from the freezer into it. Then he carried the kit and the ice into the back bedroom. Schultz was just leaving the room.

"Herr Kommandant, perhaps, I should . . . "

Klink shook his head. "Nein, for this we need Sergeant Wilson."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

Klink put the medical kit and ice on the desk and turned to Hogan. The American was shaking uncontrollably on the bed, more unconscious than conscious. Klink walked over to the bed and began removing Hogan's shoes.

Klink had finished removing Hogan's shirt when Sergeant Wilson came into the room, accompanied by Schultz.

Wilson stopped at the sight of Hogan shivering and half-dressed on the bed. And wondered how he could possibly explain. Not that he could. Not when Klink was slowly unwrapping the bandage around Hogan's arm, revealing the small wound. It had looked benign the last time Wilson had bandaged it; now it was clearly inflamed. But what startled Wilson the most was that Klink didn't look surprised.

Klink glanced at Wilson. "The wound is infected, Sergeant. And his fever is very high."

"Uh, yes, sir." Wilson went over to Hogan as Klink moved away.

"Schultz, the medical kit," Klink said.

Schultz picked up the kit and handed it to Wilson.

Klink watched silently as Wilson checked Hogan over. After a few minutes, Wilson bandaged Hogan's arm. Then he tucked the comforter tightly around Hogan.

"Do you have any more blankets, Kommandant?" Wilson asked.

"In the closet," Klink said.

Schultz took a couple of blankets from the closet and handed them to Wilson.

"The ice is good, Kommandant, but we need to put it around the colonel. Like in a hot water bottle?"

"I know where there are some, Herr Kommandant," Schultz said.

"Get them."

Schultz nodded and left.

Wilson stood and looked at Klink awkwardly. And he almost frowned. Hogan was semi-conscious, but Klink looked almost as bad. "If you don't mind my saying so, sir, you could use some sleep."

Klink visibly pulled himself together. "Later. How is he?"

"Well, his fever's a hundred and four, but I think it's spiking. I've seen it happen before. A sudden fever with no warning. The ice should bring it down. And if we can get some aspirin into him — that'll help too. All we can do is watch him."

"If the fever doesn't spike, as you say, if it stays high," Klink said.

"That's a whole different kettle of fish. What I mean is," he added as Klink's face went blank, "then there is a problem. High fevers in adults are dangerous if they last too long. Even if it drops a couple of degrees, it'll help."

Schultz came back with several hot water bottles and began filling them with ice.

"I'll need some water for the aspirin," Wilson said.

"I'll get it," Klink said and left the bedroom.

Wilson went over to the desk, helping Schultz fill the bottles. "Uh, Schultz," he began.

"Do not ask, Sergeant," Schultz said in a warning voice. "It is best if you," there was no humor in his voice, "know _nothing_."

Wilson looked at the large Sergeant, noticing for the first time how menacing the German could look. Silently, he took some of the water bottles back to the bed. "We might need more ice later."

Schultz nodded. "I will get some from the freezer in the mess hall."

"Okay."

Klink came back with a pitcher of water on a tray and several glasses. He half-filled one of the glasses and handed it to Wilson.

"Thanks, Kommandant." Wilson put the glass on the night table beside the bed and began to lift Hogan's head. To his surprise, Klink was there, helping him.

"I will hold him," Klink said.

"Uh, thanks, sir." Wilson took several aspirin and the glass in his hands. "Hopefully, he'll cooperate." He managed to openHogan's mouth. "Colonel," he said loudly, "drink this."

To Wilson's relief, Hogan did take a sip of the water, enough to get the aspirin down. Klink laid the American back on the bed.

"Okay, that's all we can do for now," Wilson said as Schultz put the rest of the ice-filled bottles around Hogan's blanket-wrapped body. "Just have to wait until the ice and the aspirin do their job."

"How long?" Klink asked.

"A few hours, if we're lucky."

"Thank you, Sergeant. Schultz will take you back to the infirmary."

"I can stay and watch him."

Klink shook his head. "You have other patients."

"Yes, sir. But if his fever goes higher or isn't better by morning — "

"I will send for you."

"Yes, sir. Good night, Kommandant."

Klink nodded as Schultz and Wilson left. Then he went to the bed and laid a hand on Hogan's forehead. An inward snort. _Expecting miracles in your old age?_ It was going to be a long night. He left and headed for the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

Schultz was back by the time the coffee was finished. He put a large bowl of ice into the freezer.

"Go to bed, Schultz," Klink said.

Schultz walked closer. For a moment he hesitated, before saying softly, "Wilhelm."

There was a thread of surprise in Klink's glance. He took the coffeepot off the stove and carried it to the table.

Again the hesitation. "Do I presume too much, or have I earned the right?"

Klink poured the ersatz coffee into two cups. "Say what you wish, Hans."

"He did not mean what he said, Wilhelm. It was the shock, the hurt of hearing about Majdanek; he did not mean it."

Klink took the coffeepot back to the stove. "You sound very certain."

"I am. Too much has happened over the past weeks for him to mean what he said."

"I hope you are right."

"I am. And I am right about something else. You are too tired. You are pushing yourself when there is no need."

"Now you are presuming too much." But there was a hint of humor in his voice.

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

"And you are right as well. As long as Binyamin is in the camp, as long as Hogan is ill, I cannot rest. When this is over, perhaps." He shrugged. "Go to bed, Schultz; there is no point in both of us losing sleep."

"I can watch Colonel Hogan."

"Nein. But," he looked at Schultz soberly, "this afternoon's events — are the men discussing it? No, wrong question — do they believe what we say happened?"

Schultz shrugged. "Some believe because they want to. Some because they are fools. The rest," he shrugged again, "they follow your lead, Herr Kommandant."

"How many know about Binyamin?"

"Perhaps half."

Klink nodded. "London honored my request that I be allowed to tell the POWs about the death camps instead of broadcasting it over the radio. But I fear I made a mistake; it would have been better if Hogan and the others had heard earlier. After he recovers, Hogan will have to tell the prisoners about them. Our men should know as well so they will not be surprised when others hate us."

"Hauptmann Gruber and I will take care of it."

"I must . . . "

"Nein, Herr Kommandant. In this you must trust me, trust us. We know those men; we live with them. We will find the words. And they will understand better why Danziger had to die. And they will understand also why this camp is the way it is."

"Danke, Hans." He looked soberly at his long-time aide. "I have regretted many things over the past ten years. But choosing you to help me is not one of them. Danke schön."

Schultz bowed formally. "Gute Nacht, Herr Kommandant."

"Gute Nacht, Schultz."

Schultz bowed again and left.

* * *

1 Klink's summation of Stalin's attitude toward Soviet POWs is unfortunately very true. Regardless of how they were captured, Stalin's view was that Soviet POWs failed in their duty to him by remaining alive. Despite their imprisonment, they were thought to be contaminated by the West, and so their loyalty to the state, to Stalin, was suspect. After the Soviet POWs were "liberated" from the German camps, some were executed outright. Many were sent to the front lines as "cannon fodder" (Beevor's _The Fall of Berlin 1945_). The rest were exiled to gulags — the Soviet concentration camps. Very few Soviet POWs returned home. And those that did had numerous restrictions put on them. Even now, the Soviets are reluctant to acknowledge the terrible lot that befell their POWs at the hands of their own government.


	12. Chapter 12

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 12

Wilhelm Klink picked up the cup of ersatz coffee and took a sip. Bitter. Almost as bitter as his mood. He glanced back at the bed. Hogan was sleeping, or unconscious; he couldn't tell. Klink walked over to the bed and looked down at Hogan. Hogan lay still — _as death_, his mind wanted to add. Resolutely, he forced the thought aside. Hogan was ill, but not that ill.

_Not yet?_

Klink shook his head angrily. Hogan was in no danger of dying. If the fever didn't break or got worse, he could request a penicillin drop from London. The American miracle drug worked wonders on infections, as he had reason to know.(1) Hogan would be fine. Unlike so many others . . .

He shook his head again. His thoughts were very gloomy this night. A reaction to Hogan's anger? A reaction to Binyamin's appearance? Or . . .

Klink turned away from the bed. He put the coffee cup down on the desk and walked over to the window. He opened the shutters for a moment. Everything was quiet now. Around the camp, the barracks were completely dark; only the searchlights and a few emergency lights broke the darkness. He closed the shutters and sat down in the easy chair beside the bed. His hand reached out and turned down the lamp on the nightstand beside the bed. Only a small glow lit the room.

He should sleep. Schultz and Wilson were right; he was tired. He hadn't gotten much sleep since Binyamin's arrival. Even less after last evening's excitement, thanks to Danziger's orders. He was tired, physically and mentally. But his mind insisted on working, and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep.

A soft sigh escaped him. The last few days had been an emotional roller coaster, starting with Binyamin's appearance. Then last night . . .

He hadn't told Hogan, never would tell Hogan, how frightened he'd been when he'd heard those two faint shots in that clearing. He could see Hogan's and Gruner's bodies lying on the ground when he reached the clearing. The shock had frozen him for a moment. Until he pulled Gruner off Hogan, he had been very afraid that Hogan was dead. And he'd never tell Hogan how sick he'd felt when Hogan collapsed an hour or so ago.

And if Hogan died, he was very afraid of what his reaction would be.

His eyes swung to Hogan.

_It's been easy for you, hasn't it, Robert? Death for you has been remarkably impersonal during this war. Minsk's death — that was the first that meant something to you. I checked your record when you got here. Your group had very few losses while you were there, and those few right in the beginning. Before you got to know those men, before it became personal. And despite everything you've accomplished in this camp and on your missions, you're still remarkably unsullied by death. I envy your innocence, your naïveté. Once, many years ago, I had been innocent. Until Binyamin's . . . death._

_His was the first, Robert. A boy I had seen grow from childhood to youthful manhood. He was very dear to me, Robert. First, for Amalia's sake . . . Oh, she was special, Robert. My first love, though neither of us would admit it. Her family became a part of my life. First, Binyamin, then later Rudolf and their child. When she died, we all lost someone very precious to us . . . _

_From the first, when I started my fight, Binyamin was there. He didn't minimize the risks, but he accepted them with the kind of joy only a boy can know. He was doing God's work, he said. I suppose for him, it was. But for me . . . God had little to do with my work. Binyamin's death . . . Given how quickly they caught him, I think I knew he led them away from me. I think I knew he was dying in my place. _

_And I almost ran away, Robert. The pain was so very great. Made worse by the horror and sorrow I saw in his parents' eyes. They had never approved of his . . . my activities. Rabbi Weiner was wise in many ways, and he was incredibly naïve. He lived in his own world, and, at that time, he was still protected from the harsh realities of the Nazis. His only son had died, needlessly in his eyes. In his pain, his sorrow, he lashed out at the person he thought was responsible — me. _

_And I lashed back. I hated myself then, Robert. More than you can possibly imagine. He never forgave me . . . He never will._

_And it took me a long time to forgive myself. _

_But Binyamin was only the first. Johann, the friend of my childhood . . . He died the following year on one of our first sabotage missions, leaving his wife and 11-year-old son. I nearly quit again, Robert. The only reason I didn't was Anna,_ _Johann's wife. Even with her pain, she saw the growing evil, and knew we had to keep fighting. _

_We did, and it cost yet another person I cared for — Johann and Anna's son Georg, only a boy of sixteen. He had begged to go on that mission. And I let him. And killed him. _

_And they weren't the only ones. _

_As we kept fighting, as the organization kept growing, I backed away from people, Robert. I had to. Partly to bring the Kommandant persona to life, but also to protect people who had once been friends. _

_To protect me. It hurt too much. Each death ripped pieces from my heart. And I was so afraid that I was turning into a machine who ordered life and death without counting the human cost. _

_But fate, God, kept reminding just how human I was. _

_Kronman(_2)_, do you remember him, Robert? When he showed up in camp, we hadn't seen each other in ten years. We had been friends back at the Academy, but our careers kept us apart. I wasn't surprised to find him with the Resistance, though I was very displeased to find myself on that list. I had thought that my Kommandant reputation had grown enough to discourage anyone from considering me. _

_Remember that key, Robert? You thought he gave it to you because he was arrested. Well, his arrest precipitated it, but he was supposed to give you the key. And the list as well. Kronman was used as the messenger because he knew me and could easily get to you. And because it was known that he wouldn't live long if he were tortured. The Resistance cell that had compiled the list had been compromised. They knew they were in danger, so they wanted to get the list out quickly, and Papa Bear was the perfect messenger. So was Kronman. Despite Hochstetter's gloating last year(_3)_, Kronman died before he could reveal anything useful. And I deeply regretted his death; once we had been close. _

_Then the news about Mulhendorf.(_4)_ He had been a friend since the last war. One I let go. When the Nazis took over, I could never be sure of him. He was an ambitious man and the Nazis were in power, that was enough for him. But he wasn't a Nazi, and the sights he saw in Russia and Poland scared him. My sources failed me that time, Robert. When Bohrmann showed up, I hadn't known about Mulhendorf's arrest. He had nothing to do with the assassination attempt; he was only on the fringes of the Resistance. But Hitler's paranoia knew no bounds, and Mulhendorf had enemies. A whisper and he was dead. When Bohrmann showed up and told me of Mulhendorf's death, I was stunned, and frightened. Was Bohrmann guessing? Or did he know something? And I was frightened for another reason. If Mulhendorf, the war hero, wasn't safe, then no one was. Especially the person I feared for the most._

_Erwin Rommel — my oldest, my dearest friend since Johann.(_5)_ Odd, since his death, I never remember him by the nickname he'd been given. Or myself for that matter. _

_Romulus and Remus. _A smile_. Names bestowed on us as a joke when we were cadets. Neither of us wanted to be there; neither of us was the ideal soldier material. We turned the joke around by adopting the nicknames ourselves, and by doing so, saved ourselves from becoming the butts of crueler jokes._

_His is the death I regret the most. Germany desperately needs men like Erwin Rommel, men of courage and conviction. I try not to second-guess decisions I've made in the past. But when I decided not to intervene in your mission to kidnap Erwin last year(_6), _I made possibly the worst mistake of my erstwhile career as the Stage. I put the organization above my personal feelings. And let both my country and myself down. If anyone could have stopped the madness, it was Erwin Rommel. His defection would have harmed the Nazis, perhaps Hitler as well. And all these endless deaths may never have come to pass._

Klink shook his head resolutely. He was dreaming now. Therewas no way to know what Rommel's defection would have done to the Nazis, to Hitler.

But he knew what Rommel's death had done to him. It had hit him harder than any of the others. Perhaps because Rommel was one more dear friend. Perhaps because it had come after a trying year. Perhaps because he was so sick of the deaths, of the lies, of the hiding. Perhaps because he was more alone than he had ever been before. His eyes wandered to Hogan.

_Erwin was the last, Robert. The last friend I had left in the military. The last one who knew who I was, who knew the kommandant was an illusion. And when he died . . . _

_Then there was you . . . With your barbed jokes and easy smile. And your sometimes barely concealed contempt. Much to my annoyance, you got under my skin. I'm not even sure why. Or why I let you. I could have shut you down so easily. Yet, I could never bring myself to do it. And it wasn't because of your skills as a saboteur; you didn't need the camp for that. Nor your work with escaping prisoners. The one time when I could have been rid of you, when London told me they wanted to reassign you, I made certain you would stay by bringing in the most incompetent officer I could find. I knew you would never have left Crittendon in charge.(_7) He nearly laughed aloud_. If you only knew how difficult it was to arrange that fiasco! And to do so without alerting London until it was too late for them to do anything._

_I'm still not sure why I did it. Maybe I saw in you the officer I could have been at your age if I cared enough to try. Or maybe I just needed you around to keep me on my toes. _

_Or maybe I needed a friend, even if you didn't want to be one. _

_Yet, when that day came, when you did offer me your friendship . . . I was frightened of it, Robert. When I looked at you, I saw the faces of the others — Binyamin, Johann, Erwin. And the thought of losing one more friend . . . _

_That night in the cabin after you rescued me from Hochstetter, I seriously thought about deceiving you. Of ensuring that you and Schultz were on a plane out of Germany,_ _and then staying behind alone and disappearing. I'm glad I didn't — I've needed your support and friendship the past few weeks. I still do. _

_But after what happened tonight, now that you know the horrible truth about camps, the question is, do I still have them? _

* * *

1 "Is There a Doctor in the House?" However, since penicillin doesn't work on the flu or other virus-caused diseases, for the real reason it cured Klink, see M. Hughes: _Dress Rehearsal_.

2 "The Safecracker Suite"

3 For a more detailed explanation about this and other incidents, see Mel Hughes: _Dress Rehearsal_

4 "The Big Picture"

5 Their friendship is detailed in _Dress Rehearsal_.

6 "Crittendon's Commandos"

7 "Hogan, Go Home"


	13. Chapter 13

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 13

"Sergeant? Is that you?"

Hans Schultz heard Karl Langenscheidt's soft voice as he entered his shared quarters.

"Karl, you are still awake? It is very late."

"I could not sleep, Sergeant."

"Karl, you are a sergeant now; you may call me Hans when we are alone."

"Jawohl . . . Hans."

Schultz sighed loudly. "That was not an order, Karl. You do not . . . What I mean is, I would like it if you would call me Hans."

Langenscheidt sat up and pushed himself back against the bed board. "I would like that, Hans."

"That is better." Schultz started to undress.

"You are late as well."

Schultz shrugged. "Colonel Hogan is ill; he has a fever. I took Sergeant Wilson over to the Kommandant's quarters."

"What was he doing in the Kommandant's quarters at this hour? Were they playing chess?"

"Nein, not tonight," Schultz said slowly. "It concerned, partly, what happened today." He looked at Langenscheidt in the semi-darkness. "And that is why you are not asleep either."

"I . . . I am trying to understand things. Many things. Not just what happened at the bridge." He looked at Schultz. "This place, it is different, ja?"

"Ja, very different."

"Colonel Hogan, he does things."

To his surprise, Schultz chuckled. "A great many things. He has helped the local resistance."

Langenscheidt gulped. "And others."

"And others."

"And the Kommandant, he . . . he also helps."

Schultz looked at him evenly. "Ja, he also helps."

"That is what I thought," Langenscheidt whispered.

"And you think that is horrible, that he fights Hitler."

Langenscheidt winced. "I wish you would not . . ."

"Say his name?" Schultz laughed harshly. "A great many people say his name. And curse the day he was born."

"There was some good . . ."

"Some, some small good. If we Germans had used the sense the good God gave us, we could have done much more good. And without murdering innocent people."

Langenscheidt sat far too still on the bed; Schultz's eyes narrowed as they looked at him.

Finally, the young sergeant whispered, "My last leave . . . I saw . . . they said they were prisoners," the words rushed out. "But I saw women and . . . and children . . . "

"You saw a concentration camp?"

"The, the SS corporal, he said it was a subcamp — I didn't understand. He said they were laborers working for the glory of the Third Reich . . . He said . . .

"I saw no glory . . . Only starved, exhausted . . . The prisoners here, they live in luxury compared to those people." His voice broke. "I was afraid . . . I wanted to . . . But I was afraid . . . " There were tears in his eyes as he looked at Schultz. "You know of them, don't you? How many there are in those camps? How many people?"

"Not as many as there were, Karl," Schultz said gently. "The ones in the subcamps may still live. But others, millions of others . . . died."

Astonishment, and horror, crossed Langenscheidt's face. "No, not millions . . . "

"Millions, Karl — Jews, Slavs, Poles, Catholics, Protestants, Gypsies, homosexuals, the mentally ill, the handicapped, men, women, children died because they were different, or because they were considered enemies. Millions . . . They will not forgive us, Karl, when the world knows. Danziger, he was one of those responsible."

"How long have you known?" Langenscheidt asked in a low voice.

"The truth about the camps, not very long; the Kommandant told me. I too was blind. I too did not want to believe."

"But you knew about Hogan and the Kommandant?"

Schultz nodded. "Ja. The Kommandant asked me to help him not long after he came to the camp."

"The Kommandant asked you? Colonel Hogan did not talk him into helping? He did things before Colonel Hogan came?"

"Ja. Years before he came to this camp."

"Years," Langenscheidt whispered. "And no one knew? The Gestapo? The SS? No one?"

Schultz sat down on the bed across from Langenscheidt and looked steadily at him. "Some discovered his secret. Hochstetter, he learned about the Kommandant."

"Hochstetter is dead . . . "

"Ja, he is. I killed him."

Langenscheidt's eyes widened, and his lips mouthed, "You?"

Schultz nodded.

"But . . . How? Why?"

"He was torturing the Kommandant," Schultz said in a quiet voice.

Langenscheidt paled even further. "Tor . . . torture."

"Ja. He was smiling as the Kommandant screamed."

Langenscheidt stared at him and then slowly looked away. "Is it bad to say I am glad you killed him?"

"Bad? I do not know. I only know that I had to stop him. If there were another way . . . I do not know. I do know if I had not killed Hochstetter, Colonel Hogan would have."

"Colonel Hogan? He was there?"

"He and his men. It was because of Colonel Hogan that we were able to find the Kommandant. Otherwise, otherwise . . . " Schultz stood and pulled on a nightshirt. "I still do not want to think about what would have happened if we had not found the Kommandant."

Langenscheidt stayed seated on the bed as Schultz went out to the washroom.

"You are thinking much tonight, Karl," Schultz said when he came back.

"Ja," he whispered. "Have you killed anyone like that before, before Hochstetter?"

"Nein. Never."

"I . . . I killed someone once . . . I did not mean it . . . I don't even remember firing . . . He was standing there, ordering me to sh-shoot the prisoners. Then he was dead." Tears glistened in hiseyes. "It was wrong for him to order me to kill the prisoners."

"Ja, very wrong."

"But I did not want him dead."

"I know."

"Sometimes, I think I should have died."

Schultz shook his head. "Nein. You had to live. To safeguard the prisoners, and to get them back here."

"The others could have brought them back."

"Nein, Karl. You may not have known what was going on in this camp, but we, the Kommandant and I, and even Colonel Hogan and the prisoners, have needed you. You were the one the new guards looked to. You showed them what to do and how to do it. And when the supplies grew scarce, you kept control. You made certain that the supplies did not disappear, that no one got more than they were entitled to. And yesterday, when the Kommandant needed your help, you gave it to him. No one else could have done what you did in this camp, Karl. No one."

"You . . . you are just saying — "

"Nein!" Schultz said emphatically. "I do not say things to please you. We, all of us, have needed you. When the prisoners learn about the camps, we will need you even more. And we will need you when the war ends. It will be difficult for us, especially the new guards. You are a good man, Karl Langenscheidt."

"I am weak . . . "

"We are all weak, in one way or another. But you are also strong now. You know what is good and right. And you will do it. Germany needs men like you, Karl. Men who are good, and kind, and know to do what is right."

"Danke, Hans."

"It is very late. We are both tired. The day will come soon enough. Go to sleep, Karl."

Langenscheidt moved back under the covers. "Hans, do you think the Kommandant would mind if I spoke to him? About the things that have happened?"

Schultz got into bed. "I do not think he would mind. I think you will find he understands how you feel, better than anyone else in camp. He took no pleasure in killing Danziger. He regrets the death of any man, even ones as evil as Danziger andHochstetter." Schultz sighed loudly and lay down. "Despite everything that has happened, despite the horror that was done to him, to others . . . " Schultz turned on his side. "Nacht, Karl."

"Nacht, Hans," he whispered.

But it was a long time before Langenscheidt finally fell asleep.

...

Sergeant Frank Wilson had a thoughtful look on his face when he entered the infirmary. An automatic glance around. It was quiet; the men were sleeping.

Save for one. He recognized the man who got up off his knees beside one of the cots. Quietly, he walked closer and waited until Private Ken Tiptoe(1), tall, dark-haired, in his late twenties, recognized him.

Tiptoe smiled at Wilson and walked over. Wilson motioned him into the small room that was his quarters.

"You're here late," Wilson said quietly.

Tiptoe shrugged. "It's a busy war. You're late as well."

"Yeah." Wilson poured himself a cup of coffee. "Care for one? Unless you're tired."

Tiptoe shook his head and then nodded. "No thanks to the coffee. And I am tired. It's been a long day."

Wilson grunted. "Yeah . . . Well . . . "

"And you have something on your mind."

Wilson laughed explosively but still quietly. "That is an understatement. I know it's late and you're tired. But if I don't get this off my chest . . . "

Tiptoe laughed more softly. "You're the fifth person to use that phrase today." Tiptoe, a minister of music, a seminary graduate, was the unofficial chaplain in the camp.

Wilson looked unexpectedly thoughtful. "I wonder if it's for the same reason."

"You tell me."

Wilson looked at him and shook his head. "The past three days . . . You've been here long enough; you know how weird things can get. But . . . Oh, sit down already."

Tiptoe grinned and sat on the cot.

Wilson sat on the stool opposite him. "Three days ago, the work detail comes back, followed by the SS. And they come in with a stranger, a stranger that Klink identifies as 'Philip Wagner'. Later, Wagner collapses and they bring him here, along with orders to keep him isolated. Then the stories start. Seems that Klink and this guy have a history together, and that Klink thought he was dead. It gets a bit sketchy after that. But the gist of it is that Klink . . . I don't know . . . blew his stack. Something."

"Something," Tiptoe whispered. "Klink used to blow his stack all the time. Why is that new?"

"Not like this. Not . . . " He stared at Tiptoe. "You already know, don't you?"

"I've . . . heard from some of the guys who were on the detail. Wagner's Jewish, escaped from a labor camp. Klink didn't blow his stack. He blazed with righteous anger, like the wrath of God. It was something to see."

"Yeah, something. Then, the next night, Hogan gets one of his missions together. Not a few men the way it normally was, but a couple of dozen. Not to blow something up — well not completely — but to hijack some trucks filled with women and children."

Tiptoe nodded. "Slave laborers."

"Not their normal mission, is it? And during that mission, Hogan is shot in the forearm. And something else happened, but I'm not sure what."

"I know a little," Tiptoe said. "Someone else showed up on that mission. A resistance leader."

Wilson snorted. "A leader? The biggest, if half the stories about him are true. That I did hear."

"Did you hear he came here?"

"Here? What the hell for?"

Tiptoe shrugged. "The story gets jumbled. Some say he disappeared into the night like a shadow. But there's a whisper that he came back with Hogan. And there's a breath that he was seen in the tunnels."

"In the tunnels?"

"Just a breath, I said."

"Then there's today. Or yesterday, since it's past midnight. That SS snake shows up, orders the original work detail to line up and eyeballs everyone. Except the one he's looking for, Wagner, isn't here. He went out on a work detail. Then the snake goes after them and gets himself killed. Good riddance." He looked at Tiptoe. "And you know something about that, don't you?"

"The story is," Tiptoe said carefully. "The story is that there was an assassin waiting on the other side of the ravine and the assassin killed the SS colonel. That's the story."

"And the truth is?"

"The truth is that there are some very confused men in this camp," Tiptoe said even more carefully. "And the truth also is that righteousness smote the demon in the wilderness."

"Righteousness? I . . . see." Wilson stood and put his coffee cup back on the shelf.

"What do you see?" Tiptoe asked softly.

Wilson didn't look at him. "Hogan collapsed in Klink's quarters; he's got an infection and a high fever. When I got there, Klink was unwrapping the bandage around Hogan's arm." He turned to Tiptoe. "And he didn't look a bit surprised to see the wound."

"No," Tiptoe agreed. "He wouldn't. Not if he was there when Hogan got hurt."

The two men stared at each other.

"I don't believe it," Wilson said flatly.

"You don't believe it? Or you don't want to believe it?"

"But . . . This is Klink we're talking about!"

Tiptoe nodded. "The man who was beaten by a deranged prisoner a few months ago and bore it without ill-will. The man who for years treated his prisoners with humanity and respect, a truth many of us were too blind to see until those poor men arrived from other camps. The man who was most responsible for the salvation of Hammelburg and notincidentally this camp during the fire. And the man who killed a godless murderer who wouldn't have hesitated to slaughter every man in this camp if it suited him."

"Okay, I'll grant you that. He's not the idiot we once thought he was . . . But you're talking about something else! For God's sake, if half the stories are true, if any of the stories are true, then . . . " Wilson sat down abruptly.

"Hogan didn't just decide to go on that mission," Tiptoe said softly. "Wagner asked him to save those women and children."

"Asked Hogan?" Wilson said.

Tiptoe shook his head. "He said even in the camps there were whispers."

"Oh dear God."

Tiptoe nodded. "Yes. I think God has had a great deal to do with him for many years."

"How many know?

"I'm not sure. The ones I talked to . . . Most of them are confused. They know parts of what happened the past three days. But others know more — the ones who suddenly look wary and close their mouths." He took a deep breath. "I haven't stopped praying since I guessed."

"Do us all a favor, Ken, don't stop," Wilson said grimly.

Tiptoe smiled faintly. "Don't worry about that. The prayer groups are praying as well, though they don't know why. Now, how sick is Colonel Hogan?"

"Not sure. The fever is high and came on suddenly. But the ice we put around him and the aspirin I gave him should bring it down."

Tiptoe nodded and stood. "I think I'll add a few more prayers to my list. Do you think the Kommandant would mind if I visited?"

"Tonight? I'm hoping he gets some sleep; he could use some. But," he shrugged, "he said he'd watch Hogan, so he might be awake."

Tiptoe smiled faintly. "Did you hear what you said?"

"What?"

"About the Kommandant."

"I said I hoped he'd . . . Oh." A quick smile. "Must be the company I keep."

"Must be. Good night, Frank."

"Night, Ken."

* * *

1 L. Cash: _New Beginnings_, used with her permission.


	14. Chapter 14

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 14

Private Ken Tiptoe found himself heading not for Barracks 12, but for the Kommandant's quarters. He'd reached the gate when a loud, "Halt!" sounded behind him. Tiptoe stopped abruptly as a guard, his rifle held ready, approached.

"Is you, Reverend," said the heavily accented voice.

Tiptoe looked at the guard; in the dim light, he could just make out the burn scars on the man's face. "Not Reverend, Corporal Nagel. Not yet."

Nagel grimaced. "Was are you doin'? Your barracks is sere." Nagel gestured with the rifle.

"Uh, the Kommandant wants to see me," he lied less than convincingly.

Nagel glanced at the building; the lights were on in the Kommandant's quarters. "I vill go vis you."

"That's not necessary," Tiptoe began.

"Ja, is," Nagel said firmly and gestured toward the porch.

With reluctance, Tiptoe walked into the small yard and up the porch stairs. Nagel gestured for him to knock, and, with a silent sigh, he did. When the door didn't open immediately, he turned to Nagel. "I guess the Kommandant changed his . . . "

The door opened.

"Yes?" Klink demanded.

"Entschuldigen Sie, Herr Kommandant," Nagel said. "I bring reverend prisoner like you say."

Klink looked at Tiptoe for a long unblinking moment. "Danke, Corporal. You have done well." And Klink, to Tiptoe's surprise, stepped aside to let him in.

Nervous now, Tiptoe stepped inside the lit quarters and pulled off his cap; he, like most of the prisoners, had never been here before. He heard the door close behind him.

"Now," said the barely accented voice behind him, "give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw you in the cooler."

Breathing a silent prayer, Tiptoe turned around, thinking and discarding half a dozen stories. He finally settled for the truth. "I heard Colonel Hogan was sick, and I thought I'd offer my services."

Klink looked blank. "Services?"

"Yes, sir. I thought I'd pray with him."

"I'm afraid that Colonel Hogan is asleep, so — "

"That's okay, sir," Tiptoe interrupted. "He doesn't need to be awake. I can pray for both of us."

Klink stared at him for so long that Tiptoe started to squirm under that steady look. He also found himself wondering what Klink was thinking.

"He's in the guestroom," Klink finally said. "Down at the end of the hall."

"Uh, yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Tiptoe said.

"Try not to wake him, if you please."

"Yes, sir."

Tiptoe walked down the hall and into the bedroom. Hogan, flushed and clearly feverish, lay on the bed, covered with a thick comforter and several blankets. Water bottles were placed against his body. Hogan was moaning slightly when Tiptoe walked over to the bed and knelt beside it. His head bowed, his hands clasped, and he began to pray.

...

" . . . In Christ's name, amen."

Tiptoe looked for a long moment at Hogan, felt movement behind him and stood.

Klink walked over to the bed and laid a hand on Hogan's forehead.

"How is he, sir?"

"I think the fever's gone down a little," Klink said. "He seemsless flushed."

"That's good, sir. Well, I'll get back to my barracks now."

"No," Klink said to his surprise. "I would like to talk to you."

"Sir?" Tiptoe followed Klink out into the living room.

"Have a seat, Private Tiptoe."

"Sir, I shouldn't really be here . . . "

"You should have thought of that before you lied to Nagel," Klink said dryly.

"I, uh . . . "

"Sit down, private."

"Uh, yes, sir." Tiptoe sat on the very edge of a chair.

Klink glanced at him and went over to the sideboard. "Would you like a drink, private?"

Tiptoe's brows rose, as did his voice. "Sir??"

"Brandy?"

Tiptoe cleared his throat. "Sir, I don't think . . . "

Klink poured brandy into two glasses and brought a glass over to Tiptoe, who took it as if he'd been handed a rattlesnake.

Klink smiled faintly and sat down on the sofa across from Tiptoe. "I've always been sorry we couldn't get a chaplain in the camp. But POW chaplains are rare, and this camp was far too small to warrant one. However, except for the occasional visits of Monsignor Geisler, you seem to have filled that role."

"I tried to do my best, sir," Tiptoe said, balancing the brandy on his knee. _What am I doing here?_ "I'm not ordained or . . ."

"I'm glad you're not, private," Klink said slowly. "If you were, I might hesitate to talk to you. But you have no bothersome vows, such as the seal of confession, to worry about."

"Sir, I may not be a priest or such, but I still . . ."

"I'm not going to ask you to betray a confidence, private," Klink said. "But," he leaned forward, "I need to know what the prisoners think about the last few days."

"Think, sir?" Tiptoe felt like there was a gaping chasm opening before him.

"Or perhaps I should be asking what you think you know."

The chasm got deeper. "I don't know anything, sir." For once, Tiptoe's glib tongue failed him. "Nobody knows . . ."

"Some do, private," Klink said softly. "Some know quite a bit. Some have guessed quite a bit. I think you fall into that category. When men can't figure something out, when they get confused, they'll turn to someone who might help them sort things out. A priest, a minister, or, in this case, an unofficial minister. You. The last few days have been difficult. Things have happened, things were seen, that would require an explanation. I believe you're smart enough to put it all together."

"Maybe, sir," Tiptoe said cautiously. "But I shouldn't be talking to you. Colonel Hogan — "

"Is ill at the moment, and even if he weren't, I'd still be talking to you. Not his men or the officers."

"Why, sir?"

Klink smiled faintly. "Because you're not an officer and you're not one of Hogan's men."

"Sir?"

Klink settled back against the cushions. "If I were running an army, the last thing I'd do is make a chaplain an officer," he said. "Many men aren't comfortable speaking to officers, even if one is there to help them. In this camp, Hogan and his men are off-limits; they're far too busy for one thing. The other officers, well, as I said many men aren't comfortable with officers. Which means they talk to each other or they talk to someone like you, who does have the training to help them, yet is on their level."

"I see what you mean, sir."

"Good. Now, what do you know or what do you guess about the past three days?"

"I, uh . . . " Then he shrugged mentally; he could only die once — he hoped. "Lt. Miller's detail came back with a stranger, one that you gave a name to. You lied, sir. I think most of the men know that."

"Do they know why?" Klink asked in a low voice.

"Some of them think you did it to keep from getting into trouble. What I mean is," he added as Klink raised a brow, "you'd told that SS captain that you could identify every man in the detail. So, you'd have to lie if you couldn't."

Klink shook his head.

"But," Tiptoe continued, "I don't think that's the general opinion. They're not sure why you lied, but . . . "

"But?" Klink said as Tiptoe hesitated.

Tiptoe shook his head. "I'm not going to guess, sir. In fact, I'm not sure why you lied either. I don't think you knew who he was when you said his name was Wagner."

"I didn't," Klink admitted to Tiptoe's surprise.

"Then why did you lie?"

Klink smiled faintly. "Because Schiff did."

"Sir?"

"I guessed Schiff was lying when he gave that vague description of the escaping prisoner. I knew he was when he didn't look for a tattoo on the men's arms."

"Tattoo?"

Klink nodded. "Binyamin has a number tattooed on his arm; it wouldn't have been hard to identify him."

"Binyamin — that's his name?"

"You didn't know?"

"No, sir; he didn't tell me his real name when I talked to him. So you knew you had nothing to lose by identifying him as Wagner since Schiff didn't care either."

Klink nodded.

"But what if someone was looking for him?"

"The risk should have been negligible. Between Schiff's report and mine, no one should have bothered to come back looking for an escaped slave worker."

"But that SS colonel did."

"The only reason he did," Klink said softly, "was because Hogan waylaid the trucks carrying the women and children."

Tiptoe sat stock-still. Despite his guesses, he hadn't expected Klink . . .

"And the only reason Danziger cared about those trucks," Klink continued in that same soft voice, "was because of the items hidden in them. Binyamin didn't make the connection until I told him about Danziger's reaction to the missing trucks. That's when he realized what else the trucks were carrying."

Since he had nothing to lose, Tiptoe asked carefully, "Would youhave approved the mission if you had known what was in the trucks, sir?"

Klink didn't answer. He smiled faintly, stood and walked over to the sideboard, pouring himself another drink. Klink turned and looked at Tiptoe, who was still seated and wondering if he dared continue with the questions.

Tiptoe looked up and met Klink's gaze steadily. "Most of the guys don't know about the trucks' hijacking. But they have heard about the bridge blowing up and that Hogan was hurt. Is that what you were curious about, sir?"

Klink shook his head. "I'm more interested in the later incident at the bridge."

"Well, sir, the official story is that Danziger was killed by an assassin, and that's the story that's been making the rounds of the camp."

"And the men who were there? Especially the six who didn't know what was going on?"

"They're . . . surprised, sir."

Klink looked at the glass in his hand. "Are they talking about their surprise?"

"It's still early, sir," Tiptoe said slowly. "They're sort of turning it over in their heads, trying to figure it out."

"And talking to each other no doubt."

"I . . . Yes, sir. And they're not exactly quiet about it. What I don't understand is why you or Colonel Hogan didn't order them to keep quiet?"

"Would it have worked?"

"Yes, I guess . . . But . . . maybe . . ."

"Or maybe not."

"Or maybe not." He looked at Klink and asked bluntly, "Sir, why did you kill Danziger? Why not have someone else kill him? I mean, the night before you arranged . . ." He broke off as Klink looked at him. "I guess I should shut up."

Klink smiled faintly and walked back to the sofa. "There is one omnipotent being in the universe, and contrary to the mythology, I am not He. The sharpshooters I know are not in the neighborhood, and I didn't know that Danziger would come here until two hours before he showed up. Even if a sharpshooter were available, he or she might decide to kill anyone in an officer's uniform. It would be very awkward if I were to wind up dead because of a mistake. And . . . " He stopped and took a sip of his brandy.

"And, sir?"

Klink looked at Tiptoe soberly. "I don't take lives lightly, private. I've seen too much death. And I've seen too much anonymous killing, whether it's by bombs falling from 30,000 feet or a machine-gun capable of taking out dozens. If I have no choice but to kill in cold blood, I won't do it anonymously or unexpectedly."

"May I ask why, sir?"

"There's a story I heard long ago about Thomas More, St. Thomas More," Klink said slowly. "He abhorred swearing and using the name of God or Jesus or the Virgin Mary in vain. In his view, a person who cursed was damned if that person died cursing. Of course, his friends and acquaintances thought him odd, saying that they would never do such a thing when they were dying. Then a man he knew was thrown by his horse while riding. And the man's dying words were a curse against God." Klink looked at Tiptoe. "Everyone," he said softly, "should know his moment of death, private. I have enough sins to answer for. Condemning a soul to eternal damnation because of something I had the power to change is not one of them."

Tiptoe looked at him steadily for long, slow minutes as Klink sipped his brandy.

"Are you praying for me, private?" Klink finally asked softly.

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Thank you."

"Sir," Tiptoe asked after a few more silent minutes, "why are you telling me these things?"

"Because I made a mistake a few months ago," Klink said quietly. "And I need your help as well as Colonel Hogan's, and Schultz's, and Captain Gruber's to rectify it. Or soften it."

"Mistake, sir?"

Klink nodded. "You talked to Binyamin?"

Tiptoe blinked. "Yes, sir."

"What did he say?"

"Not much, sir. Just that you used to know each other and you thought he'd died. He was very discreet, sir."

"He didn't tell you about the concentration camps?"

"Just that he'd been to several with that SS colonel and that he'd escaped on his way to one."

"And what do you know about the camps?"

"Very little, sir. Prisons for enemies of the Nazis and slave labor?"

Klink nodded. "Yes, and no." He stood and walked over to the window. "Concentration camps have existed from the beginning of the Third Reich," he said, staring out at the darkness. "Starting with Dachau. Communists, socialists, and other so-called enemies of the state, including religious leaders, were imprisoned. Then the net grew bigger. Those the Nazis deemed inferior, mentally or physically, were rounded up. Then Gypsies. Jews beginning in 1935 were singled out as a whole race, eventually deprived of homes, businesses, rights, access to transportation, schools, hospitals, shops, occupations, pets — the places and comforts of everyday life. Those prohibitions extended not merely to practicing Jews, but also to those who had Jewish grandparents. Hundreds of thousands of Jews and others were forced out of Germany. Most of those who stayed were eventually rounded up and put into ghettoes where people lived in crowded inhuman conditions. With the invasions — Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, the Low Countries, France, and finally the Soviet Union — more people were taken. Jews, of course, and Gypsies. But also soldiers, political prisoners, clergy, ordinary people who dared to defy the Nazis — all were put into concentration camps, slave camps, where overwork, deprivation and starvation took care of many of them.

"As the Nazis advanced east, the killings began in earnest. They were called Einsatzgruppen — killing units. They 'cleansed' villages, towns, cities of Jews and other undesirables."

_Cleansed? _A fist of pure dread squeezed Tiptoe's insides as he listened.

"However," Klink continued, "most people don't take to murder easily. Not even the Einsatzgruppen. For one thing, if you turn men into savage killers, it becomes increasingly difficult to control them. A more efficient, less personal method of killing was found — the extermination camps."

Ashen, Tiptoe stood, staring at Klink. "Extermination . . . extermination camps?" he whispered.

Klink nodded. "Beginning in late 1941," he said softly. "Though it didn't become a 'Final Solution' until January 1942. Officially ending November of last year. But by then, millions of people, young, old, sick or well, of every nationality and religion, had died in the gas chambers."

Tiptoe's forgotten glass slipped from his numb fingers to the floor, the brandy staining the rug.

"There were six extermination camps," Klink continued in that surreal soft voice. "Chelmno, Belzec, Sobibor, Treblinka, Auschwitz and Majdanek, all in Poland. The first four were solely extermination camps, using gas chambers for the killings; they alone accounted for two million deaths. The other two camps had multiple uses — murders of those deemed unfit to live went on in one section, forced labor in other sections. Majdanek was also a Soviet POW camp.(1)

"The concentration camp system continued to grow. Some were transit camps for those on the way to the killing centers. The rest became forced labor camps for the war effort where millions died from starvation, disease, exhaustion, or executions if they grew troublesome or were unable to work. God alone knows how many have died. Now, thousands die on the death marches."

"Death marches?" Tiptoe managed to whisper.

"As the Allies advance, the camps have been and are being evacuated. Starving, exhausted prisoners are marched to other camps without provisions under brutal conditions. Many do not survive the journey. Binyamin and the ones with him were lucky; there was transportation for them. Most likely because Danziger wanted to get his ill-gotten goods away." Klink shook his head, as if trying to make the nightmare disappear. He looked at Tiptoe's pasty white face. "And that is the true horror of the Third Reich, private. The cold-blooded murder of millions of people. Millions whose only crime was that their lives were an affront to the 'Master Race'."

Tiptoe's legs gave out and he sank down into the chair. He was shaking uncontrollably; he felt sick, faint.

Klink hurried over. He forced the glass of brandy he held to Tiptoe's lips. "Drink it. Now!"

The fiery liquid poured into Tiptoe's mouth, and he choked, coughing, his eyes watering. The faintness receded, though the sick feeling remained.

Klink stepped away from Tiptoe, watching him trying to absorb what he'd heard.

Long, slow minutes passed as Tiptoe sat there, horror-struck, his tearing eyes fastened on his tightly clenched hands.

Finally, he looked at Klink. "Does . . . does Colonel Hogan know?"

Klink nodded. "He found out before he came here; Binyamin told him."

"What about . . . Does the rest of the world?"

"There have been stories about the deaths of Jews and others for several years in British and American newspapers and radio.(2) President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill also have mentioned the camps and the deaths in radio talks over the years. But for most, the news of the camps was of less importance than war news. And most people could not or would not believe how horrific the camps were. Now that the camps are being liberated, the truth will finally be exposed and believed. In time, the whole world will know and believe. And," his voice dropped, "they will never forgive us."

Klink turned away, but not before Tiptoe saw the pain on his face.

Tiptoe stood unsteadily and walked closer to Klink. "What do you want me to do, Kommandant?" he asked hesitantly.

"I don't know. In this . . . " Klink shook his head. "I asked London not to tell Hogan. For purely personal and selfish reasons," he admitted softly.

Tiptoe nodded, remembering how tense the camp had been after Martinelli's death. And Hogan's reaction to the death of that one man.

"And since then," Klink continued, and shrugged, "the time never seemed right. That was my mistake. I couldn't find the words or the time, and now time is at a premium." He looked at Tiptoe. "That is why I am asking for your help. How do I inform the prisoners of the evil carried out by some Germans? How do I keep them from turning on my men?"

"I . . . I don't know, sir," Tiptoe said. "I . . . " He took a deep breath."Whenever I don't know what to do, sir, I pray. God will provide an answer. He always does."

Klink smiled faintly. "Yes, He does." The smile turned grim. "But I've discovered over the past years that I don't always appreciate the answer He provides."

And Tiptoe couldn't answer.

"Forgive me, private," Klink said softly. "I had no right to burden you with this."

Tiptoe shook his head slowly. "No, I'm glad I know before the others learn about it. I think, maybe . . . " He took a deep breath. "I need to pray about this, Kommandant. After I do, then maybe I can be of some help."

"Thank you."

"Then, I'll . . . " He took a step and kicked the glass still lying on the rug. "Oh. Sorry, sir." Tiptoe bent and picked up the glass. "I guess I, uh . . . "

Klink shook his head and took the glass from him. "Good night, private."

"Uh, good night, sir."

With an awkward smile, Tiptoe left.

Ken Tiptoe walked across the compound to Barracks 12, his shock turning into anger — blind, searing anger. An anger that surprised and frightened him. And luckily for him, and anyone else, none of the guards challenged him on the way back to his barracks.

When he got there, as he expected, the lights were out and he heard the familiar sleeping sounds of the barracks. He walked into his room at the end of the barracks. For the first time, the mild surprise he'd always felt at being assigned a private room didn't come. It should have, he told himself. He was a private; he shouldn't have his own room. Only the officers and barracks leaders rated one. But Hogan had assigned it to Tiptoe when he'd lost the space he'd been using for counseling sessions in the conversion of available space into living quarters for the new men.

He felt — he didn't know how he felt. He'd promised the Kommandant he would pray. He knew that he should pray, but the words refused to come.

A sudden fit of rage struck, and Tiptoe threw his Bible on the rough table he used as a desk. Bigelow, a carpenter, had made it for him, he remembered dully, for help he'd provided. _Help, what help? How can I help anyone with this?_

Not bothering to get undressed, he crawled into his bunk. He was tired. The increasing number of prisoners since last year had kept him busy. Especially that last batch of prisoners, over three hundred evacuees from other prison camps — men who were ill, emaciated, lice-ridden, even dying. Normally, he had no trouble falling asleep.

But tonight, sleep wouldn't come. Tiptoe was haunted by visions conjured up by the Kommandant's words. Visions of people — women, children, normal people — rounded up like animals, crowded into ghettoes, their lives, their livelihoods, disrupted, ruined. Then, stripped of everything, led into gas chambers where they . . .

His hands covered his face to shut out the sight. But he couldn't. Any more than he could shut out the other sights — people worked until they died, or worked until they dropped and murdered as they lay there. Or marched as those three hundred had been marched, in rags, with no provisions, no comfort, marched until they died or were killed when they couldn't move. Or . . .

_Why, God? Why?_

Troubled, Tiptoe got out of bed, lit a candle, poured water from a pitcher into the basin and splashed water on his face. He straightened, drying his face with a rough towel. Despite the dimness, his eyes met the eyes in the mirror and his thoughts were drawn back to a time shortly after he'd arrived at Stalag 13.

In terms of experience, Tiptoe had been, as they said in his native Tennessee, a wet-behind-the-ears rookie, just graduated from the seminary when he was drafted. He'd been in the camp only a couple of months when the first crisis occurred. An RAF private named Henderson had received news that the daughter born after his capture had died in an air raid on London. Frightened of what the despondent man might do, his barracks leader had gone to Colonel Hogan and Tiptoe. Since no other place was then available, Tiptoe had spent the night in Hogan's quarters, counseling Henderson and helping him work through his pain.(3)

Tiptoe never forgot the look he saw in Hogan's eyes that night. First, compassion and concern for a man in his command, then anger. An anger that scared Tiptoe, for it was a dark, menacing anger that if left unchecked threatened to choke everything good in Hogan. For two years, that anger had lain dormant — until Martinelli. Martinelli's death at the hands of the SS had unleashed the anger that Tiptoe had seen smoldering in Hogan's eyes years before. The compassionate man Tiptoe had known was gone. Every suppressed hurt or wrong, real or imagined, Hogan had experienced was focused on one person — Kommandant Klink. That anger had led to Klink's arrest by the Gestapo. Though Klink had been cleared, the resulting enmity between the two men had left many in the camp wondering if their private war would leave any survivors. Yet the anger, the demon, had not destroyed the good man within Hogan. Somehow, in a way Tiptoe suspected nobody would ever know, Hogan had buried his demon during a cave-in the week before Christmas and made his peace with Klink.

Hogan's experience had proven that no man was immune to the effect of evil in the world. But it also gave Tiptoe hope. The demon didn't have to be in control; he could be defeated. Tiptoe looked his demon in the eye and turned to the One that could give him victory.

_Lord, help me!_ The words formed in Tiptoe's mind, the same words he had prayed a short time ago for Colonel Hogan. _In these troubled times, it's a comfort to know that you're in control_.

_But, God, millions in the past two years. Millions died for no reason, except they were hated. If you are really in control, how could that happen?_

Tiptoe retrieved his Bible from the table, and pulled the candle closer. The Bible opened to the book of Job, and he began reading.

"In the land of Uz there lived a man whose name was Job."(4) A great man, a God-fearing man, a man who had everything. Then, in a test of Satan's, Job lost everything — his children, his wealth.

But Satan wasn't finished with Job, as he told God, "'Stretch out your hand and strike his flesh and bones, and he will surely curse you to your face.' And Job was afflicted with painful sores from the soles of his feet to the top of his head."(5)

Tiptoe read and reread the book of Job during that long night, trying to understand, looking for something that would make sense.

Suddenly Tiptoe realized something he'd never noticed before — Satan was never able to do more than God allowed him to do. _Okay, God is in control. But why would he let millions of innocent people be killed for no reason?_

"If it were his intention and he withdrew his spirit and breath, all mankind would perish together and man would return to the dust."(6)

_If God abandons man, then man dies? Is that what happened — God abandoned us? Or . . . _

He stared at the page, the words blurring together. Or had man done that himself? Had man abandoned God? Or had man decided he was God? Wasn't that what the Nazis were doing? Deciding they were God, deciding who would live or die? Maybe God permitted the evil that man created to remind the world what happens when humanity decides it doesn't need God.

Tiptoe sighed deeply. He didn't understand why Job had to suffer. He didn't understand why Henderson's daughter had to die. He didn't, couldn't, understand the senseless murder of millions of people.But it didn't matter.

_Lord, I come to you, hurt and anguished over the loss of so many of your children. But I can't be more hurt and anguished than you are when your children destroy each other. God, I don't understand; I'll probably never understand. But I know you love us._

_Forgive me for the hate I have in my heart toward those who committed those terrible deeds. Take away the hate and help me to love as you love. Lord, there is no way to hear the truth about the deaths and not be affected by them. But show me a way to tell the truth to this camp without spreading more hate. In Christ's name, amen._

* * *

1 The history of the Holocaust as given by Klink was drawn mainly from Halevy Yechiam's _Historical Atlas of the Holocaust_, United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. Macmillan Publishing USA, 1996. The _Atlas_ gives an overall history of the Holocaust and the countries involved and then gives a description (including maps) and brief history of each concentration camp.

2 Breitman, Richard. _Official Secrets: What the Nazis Planned, What the British and Americans Knew._

3 L. Cash. _New Beginnings._

4 Job 1:1 _New International Version. It wasn't available in 1945 and Tiptoe would have used the King James Version. However, since there are non-native English speakers among the readers, I decided to use the modern translation, as the King James Version may not be completely understandable to them._

5 Job 2:5-7 _New International Version_

6 Job 34:14-15 _New International Version_


	15. Chapter 15

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 15

Robert Hogan blinked in the near darkness. Something felt odd to him. He couldn't pinpoint what it was . . . Something . . .

The bed. The bed felt so good. Firm, but blissfully soft. And he wasn't covered with a rough blanket. Down . . . That's it, it was a down comforter. And the pillow . . .

_I've died and gone to heaven. _Except he didn't think he rated heaven. Purgatory, yes, but not . . .

He turned his head, curious. _Not heaven_. A darkened room. Nondescript to tell the truth. But the bed was still wonderful.

Someone stirred. It was Klink sitting in an easy chair beside the bed.

Klink leaned over and touched Hogan's forehead with a cool hand. He nodded with seeming satisfaction. He picked up a glass of water. Slipping his hand under Hogan's neck, he lifted the American's head up a bit, and held the glass to Hogan's lips.

Hogan took a couple of sips. "Thanks," he gasped after a moment.

Klink put the glass down on the nightstand. "How do you feel?"

"Tired, achy," Hogan admitted.

Klink nodded. "Light-headed?"

He had to think about it. "No, just tired."

"Good." Klink picked up the thermometer. "Open up." He put the thermometer in Hogan's mouth.

"This isn't," Hogan mumbled around the thermometer.

"Quiet!" Klink ordered. After a minute, he took the thermometer out and looked at it. "Good, your fever's gone. You had us worried; it was 104 earlier."

"104? That high?" Hogan pushed himself further up on the pillow, dislodging some of the water bottles. Klink picked them up and put them into the bowl of melted ice.

"How'd I get here?" Hogan asked.

"Schultz brought you in after you collapsed."

"I what?"

"Too much excitement and the fever. Not a good combination."

"Oh." He was having trouble remembering what had happened. Maybe it was just as well. What he did remember . . .

And he did remember. His anger, the words he'd thrown at Klink. Klink's even angrier response. And he found himself angry again. Not at Klink this time. But at his own ignorance . . .

"I guess I should apologize," Hogan said soberly.

Klink froze for a moment as he started to sit down. When he did sit, he seemed to fall into the chair rather than settling down on it easily. And he smiled sadly. "The apology should be mine. I know better than to get an ill man upset."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." Klink's eyes dropped to his hands. "I could never find the words to tell you about the camps . . . I didn't want you to be . . . I don't know . . . "

"You're rambling."

Klink nodded. "I'm thinking about the unthinkable, Robert. About a reality so heinous that I want to hide from it. And I can't. No German can." His sober eyes lifted to Hogan's. "I fought back because I was scared of losing one of the few friends I have left. I wanted to prove to you that . . . " He shook his head. "But I can't. This horror can't be forgotten or ignored, or even compared to other horrors. To do so diminishes the lives of those who died. This horror is uniquely German; I know that. And Germans everywhere will be tainted by it for years to come. Getting angry at you, getting angry at the world, comparing it to other horrors . . . None of that will change our shame."

Hogan was silent for a long time. He knew that Klink, despite everything, loved his country. And to learn what had been done by the Nazis in the name of that country . . . Hell, if his reaction to learning about the camps had been extreme, what had Klink felt when he learned about them? And what did Klink feel when he had to tell someone else about them?

"I'm sorry," Hogan said quietly.

"So am I," Klink whispered. "I pray you never have to choose between your conscience and your country, Robert." He stood and walked to the window. "What do you do when everything you've sworn to protect, to honor, becomes monstrous, perverted?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'll find out when I get back home. I guess there's a lot wrong there that I never saw," Hogan said slowly. And it hurt to admit that he'd been blind too. He glanced at Klink's profile. "How come you know so much about the States?"

A wan smile. "My English teacher in the Gymnasium believed that the way to learn a language and understand a culture was to read its literature and newspapers. As long as they were available, I continued the habit." He looked at Hogan. "And you are still tired and unwell. Go back to sleep, Robert. We will talk later."

Hogan settled back on the pillows. "The men. They have to know."

Klink nodded. "All of them, yours and mine." He hesitated. "Perhaps I overstepped, but I've talked to your Private Tiptoe."

Hogan stared at him. "You did," he said in a flat voice.

"He came over to see you," Klink said evenly. "The men have been talking to him. He'd guessed most of what happened over the past few days."

"So he knows everything."

"He knows enough. And," his eyes moved away from Hogan's, "I told him about the camps."

Hogan expelled a loud breath. "How did he react?"

"How does any man of conscience react to the unthinkable? How will your men react?"

"I . . . I don't know," Hogan said tiredly.

Klink went back to the bed and removed the extra blankets. "Go back to sleep, Robert. You need the rest."

Hogan nodded, his eyes closing. "You could use some sleep too."

"I know," Klink said quietly, putting the blankets back into the closet. He turned back to Hogan. The American had burrowed deeper under the comforter and as Klink watched, fell asleep.

A soft sigh. _Sleep_. Klink sat down on the easy chair. _Perchance to dream?_ That quote from Hamlet seemed particularly apt lately. His dreams of late hadn't been the most pleasant. Since Binyamin's appearance, he'd dreamed of the camps he'd seen and the executions he'd witnessed. But instead of strangers who'd died before his eyes, the dead were his friends and family. And before Binyamin arrived, his dreams had been filled with laughing images of Hochstetter and Reiner and the horrors he'd endured. As a result, his nights for some time were less than restful; as a result, he was more tired than he'd ever been. And sitting in this darkened room was not going to make the rest of this night particularly restful either.

Since sleep was eluding him, he turned his attention to other matters. Thanks to Teppel's call, the question of what to do with Binyamin turned out to have an unexpectedly easy solution. In a few days, that problem would be resolved.

Then there was the promise he'd made to Allied High Command, the promise of a Rhine crossing. They didn't believe he could do it; he knew that. A tightness in his stomach since he knew that it might cost the lives of many of his operatives. But the sooner the Allies crossed the Rhine, the sooner the end would come.

_And how many lives would the end cost? _

He pushed that thought aside. How many lives would be lost by prolonging the inevitable? As long as that madman in Berlin refused to believe the end was near, the number of dead would continue to climb. Once the Allies had crossed the Rhine, perhaps even Hitler's insane mind could see the end.

And there was another reason. The Americans and the British had to take as much German territory as they could as quickly as possible; else Stalin's troops would rape and savage Germany. And if Stalin took enough of Germany, what would stop him from taking France and the rest of Europe? The terrors that existed under Hitler would pale in comparison to the terrors that would exist under Stalin.

Klink removed the monocle from his left eye and rubbed his aching eyes. He put the monocle on the nightstand, leaned against the chair back and closed his eyes. The Allies had to cross the Rhine and in another couple of weeks, God willing his people accomplished what he'd ordered, the Rhine crossing would be a reality. That at least was a semi-pleasant thought, and on that note, he finally fell asleep.

...

Klink was dozing when he heard a racket coming from the living room. The noise woke him fully. Glancing at a sleeping Hogan, he stood and walked to the door, straightening his uniform as he did. He opened the door quietly and stepped into the hall. And winced. The clanging was giving him a bigger headache and would wake Hogan.

Klink walked quickly into the living room and stopped in surprise. Hogan's men, all of them carrying brooms, pails and other cleaning paraphernalia, were making the racket.

"What is going on here?" he demanded, the Kommandant voice surfacing in his irritation.

"Uh, sorry, sir," Newkirk said, his eyes darting around. "Just thought we'd clean up a bit. You know, cleanliness is next to — "

"Enough! You're loud enough to wake the dead."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," Carter said quickly. "We'll just . . . " His foot kicked the pail of water, spilling it over the rug.

Klink had to resist the inclination to stamp his foot in annoyance as he used to do whenever Hogan's men got on his nerves. This time, he just stared at them silently. This time, they stopped fussing with the cleaning supplies and looked at each other sheepishly.

"Sorry, sir," Kinch said. "I guess this is a bit ridiculous."

"A bit," Klink said dryly. "I assume you know about Colonel Hogan."

"Yes, sir. Wilson said he was here."

Klink nodded. "And you want to know how he is?"

"Yes, sir."

"His fever is gone and he's sleeping. Unless you managed to wake him."

"Sorry, sir. Thanks for telling us."

They began to pick up their pails and supplies.

"Just a minute!" The Kommandant voice was back. "There's a brandy stain on the rug." He nodded toward it. "And that water youspilled needs to be cleaned up. Since you're already here and are so well equipped, you can do it. There are also some water bottles and a bowl in the guest bedroom that need to be emptied. One of you, quietly, get them. Try not to wake Hogan; he needs the sleep." Klink looked at his watch and sighed. "Corporal LeBeau, you might see if there's anything in the kitchen you can use to make Colonel Hogan a light broth. Or get it from the mess hall's supplies."

"Oui, mon Kommandant." LeBeau handed his brush and dustbin to Newkirk and walked to the kitchen.

"Get to it, gentlemen," Klink said and walked back to his bedroom.

Newkirk dropped the brush and glared at Carter. "Great. Now we get to spend the morning cleaning."

"Yeah. But we know how the Colonel's doing," Carter said brightly.

"We would have known if we just asked Klink. Now he's annoyed with us," Newkirk grumbled.

Kinch grinned. "I think he's enjoying this. Well, we might as well get started."

They were just finishing when Private Ken Tiptoe arrived. They looked at him in surprise. Not only was the visit unexpected, but Tiptoe looked as if he hadn't slept all night.

"What are you doing here?" Newkirk asked.

"Thought I'd visit the colonel."

LeBeau came back into the living room, carrying a bowl. "You'll have to come back; he fell asleep while I was giving him the soup."

"He's okay now?"

LeBeau shrugged. "Seems to be. Just tired I guess."

"How's the Kommandant?" Tiptoe asked to their surprise. And was equally surprised when they looked at him suspiciously.

"Why do you want to know?" Kinch asked without a smile.

Tiptoe blinked. "I came over after I heard about the colonel. And we kind of talked."

"About?"

Tiptoe blinked again; there was very little humor in their eyes as they looked at him. "I know what happened at the bridge," Tiptoe said slowly. "And a few other things. He wants to see me again," he said with open irritation. "Okay?"

The others looked at each other and then at him.

"I suppose we can trust him," Baker said.

"Yeah, he's almost a reverend," Kinch said with a smile.

"Almost," Tiptoe said. "Look, I didn't mean to step on any toes, but," he shrugged, "it's been a weird week."

"That's an understatement," Kinch said dryly. "For a lot of guys. Okay, we'll stop picking on you. Klink's in his office, but if I were you, I'd wait until Hogan was up."

Tiptoe nodded. "I do need to talk to both of them. Thanks."

"Uh, Tiptoe," Newkirk began. "How much do you know?"

To their surprise, he smiled sadly. "Much more than I ever wanted to know," he said softly. "See you later." And he left, leaving them to exchange uneasy glances.

...

He'd been expecting it, but it was still a shock when General Burkhalter called in the early afternoon.

"Good day, Herr General," Klink said brightly. "It's always a pleasure to — "

"Shut up, Klink."

"Shutting up, sir," he said mechanically.

"You have the plans we discussed at the last staff meeting?"

"Of course, Herr General."

"Then you know what to do."

"Are you certain it's necessary, Herr General? After all, we're surrounded by the brave men of the — "

"That's exactly why it's necessary, Dummkopf! You have your orders, Klink. Now carry them out."

"I will certainly do my best," he began.

"Humph! Try not to make a total mess of it, Klink. Just remember, your life might depend on it." The telephone line clicked.

Klink slowly replaced the receiver. While it wasn't a surprise, he'd thought he'd have more time. Burkhalter would give him a week to carry out the plans, but at the end of that time . . .

He sighed and stood. Another problem to worry about.

Unless . . .

There was a way, but it needed to be done fast, and he needed a radio. The closest one was in the tunnels. An ironic smile. He was getting spoiled, using Hogan's resources instead of going to the cabin. But, an internal sigh, too much was happening too fast. And time, time was quickly becoming a luxury he couldn't afford.

Klink sighed audibly as he left his office.


	16. Chapter 16

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 16

The news about Hogan's collapse was making the rounds of the camp. To those who believed the story of how he'd gotten hurt, it wasn't much of a surprise. They knew that getting shot was serious. To some of those who didn't believe the truth, Hogan's collapse was good for a few jokes — as long as they didn't make them in front of the "true believers", as they mockingly called the others. A couple of them had been imprudent enough to openly laugh at the story and had escaped without consequences only because Captain Mitchell happened to be walking by. But in Barracks 79, the laughs were long and hearty, for most of the men anyway.

Then the story of where Hogan had spent the night also got around. Most of the men didn't care. But in Barracks 79, it was more confirmation of Hogan's collaboration with the enemy.

But despite the tolerance of most of the camp, Hogan decided after he woke from one more long nap that he'd better return to his quarters.

Hogan was shaving when music began filtering into the guest bathroom. He stopped and listened. There was a violin solo, quiet, beautiful, and he listened, the razor still in his hand, soap still on his face.

_I'll have to ask Klink what the name of that is. It was . . . soothing. That was the word. Like a peaceful chapel_. And he smiled at himself; he couldn't remember the last time he'd set foot in a church.

Finally, the music ended, and he finished shaving. Hogan eased his arm up a bit. Still sore, but it no longer ached nonstop as it had before. As long as he didn't make any sudden moves, he would be fine.

Hogan walked into living room; Klink looked up from the score he was studying.

"What was the music?" Hogan asked.

"_Meditation_ from the opera _Thais_ by Massenet."

"Nice piece. Restful."

Klink smiled faintly. "Good for soothing the soul, even if he plays it faster than I think it should be played. The recording is by Jascha Heifetz."

"Heifetz? I know that name."

"You should," Klink said dryly. "He's popular in your country. I saw him once."

"You did?"

Klink nodded. "A concert in Berlin in 1912. I saved every pfennig I had to see him. He was magnificent." An unconscious sigh. "One of the better memories of my life." He turned back to the score.

"What's that?"

"The violin solo you heard. I've always wanted to learn it." He looked at Hogan with a smile. "I think I've almost got it. Would you like to hear it?" He reached for his violin.

_I guess even the Stage has some human foibles_, Hogan found himself thinking as he was saying quickly, "Why don't you wait until you get it right?" _Which will never happen. And that music is far too lovely to ruin._ "I'd better get back to my quarters."

"You're welcome to stay," Klink said distractedly, his eyes on the score.

"Yeah, that'll go over great with the rest of the camp."

"Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

Hogan grinned. "You mean that mind of yours does shut down once in awhile? I thought you were always plotting."

Klink smiled faintly. "No, not always. Are you certain you wouldn't like to hear it?"

"No," Hogan said hurriedly. "Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise when you do get it right."

"Well, all right."

Hogan turned toward the door. Before he got there, the violin sounded behind him.

_Please don't let him wreck it too badly; it really is too pretty_.

The music continued behind him.

_He's not doing too bad._

Hogan's hand was on the doorknob, expecting an awful screech. Expecting . . .

_He's not doing badly at all. He's . . . _

And Hogan listened. Finally, he listened . . .

And turned slowly to face Klink; Klink had a small smile on his face.

Hogan didn't smile; he couldn't. Instead, he wanted to cry as the exquisite sounds engulfed the small room.

Why was he so surprised? For weeks, he'd known that Klink had played a part. Why didn't he realize that the inept Kommandant demanded an inept musician? Why should it surprise him that Klink was good?

Because Klink was more than good. Even to his untrained ear, the genius was evident. And Hogan finally understood the price Klink had paid to follow his father's dream — he'd sacrificed his very soul.

The last notes faded away. It seemed sacrilegious to break the silence that followed.

"Did I get it right?" Klink finally asked softly.

Hogan nodded.

"Thank you," Klink said, putting the violin down.

"That's what you gave up," Hogan finally whispered,

Klink nodded, and turned away from the look in Hogan's eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Klink shook his head. "It was a long time ago." He put the violin into the case. The case snapped shut with a jarring finality.

Hogan didn't know what to say. Everything he wanted to say would sound trite or pitying. And Klink deserved neither.

Klink finally broke the mood by glancing at the clock. "I still have work to do; I'd better put these away." He picked up the score and the violin case. "See you later." He walked back to his bedroom.

"Later," Hogan echoed and started for the door.

As he got there, Private Ken Tiptoe arrived, wanting to talk to him and Klink.

Klink came in from his bedroom and stopped.

Tiptoe managed a wan smile. "Sorry to bother you, sir. Uh, both of you, sirs."

"You don't look well, private," Klink said, walking to the sideboard.

"Truth is, I don't feel well. But," he shrugged, "I'm not the only one. Uh, thank you, sir." He automatically took the glass of brandy that Klink offered him.

Hogan unconsciously rubbed his sore arm and asked in an unintentionally irritable voice, "You wanted to see both of us?" He took a glass of brandy from Klink and sat down on the sofa. "Will you sit down?" he said after a moment. "I'm getting a sore neck staring up at you."

"Yes, sir." Tiptoe sat on the edge of a chair and took a deep breath. "I've been thinking and praying about the camps, sirs, ever since I learned about them."

"I'm sorry," Klink said quietly, getting some brandy for himself. "I had no right to make my problem yours."

Tiptoe shook his head. "No, sir. As I said, I'm glad I learned about them before the others. I think, maybe, because I'm an outsider, I can see it from a different perspective. And maybe because I'm almost a minister too." He looked at the brandy in his hand and carefully put it on the coffee table. "Not used to this," he said self-consciously.

"Not quite part of the official diet for POWs," Klink said dryly. "Even in better times."

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I mean, I don't drink, sir."

Klink looked taken aback. "Oh."

"But, I know for some people, it might help"

"I hope your idea isn't to get everyone drunk," Hogan said.

Tiptoe managed a small smile. "No, sir." The smile faded and his face and demeanor grew far too serious. "I don't think there's anyway to sugarcoat the truth about the camps. The guys are going to be angry. Some will hate all too easily." His sober eyes looked at the two colonels. "I don't know if this will work or not, but it might defuse much of the anger. I think there should be two tellings of the truth about the camps."

"Two?" Klink said.

"Yes, sir. Two. The first, sir, should be by your alter ego." Klink's brow lifted. "Yes, sir, your alter ego, informing the officers and those men who know about you."

"Why?"

"The anger and hate will be there no matter how people learn about the camps. But if your alter ego, a German who's been fighting the evil long before any of us, tells us about the camps, then maybe the ones who hear it from you will see that not all Germans are monsters."

"He's right," Hogan said quietly.

Klink stood and walked over to the window. "Go on."

"Those men will start talking about it. Word will get around. Then Colonel Hogan will make an official announcement to the barracks leaders and officers. As part of that, he'll explain that you had told him about the camps."

"I wish I had," Klink said quietly. "Long ago."

"Don't, Wilhelm," Hogan said softly, and to Tiptoe's surprise. "Don't beat yourself up over it. I did that enough for both of us."

"And you were right," Klink said in the same tone. He turned to Tiptoe. "All right, I'll agree to do it your way." A grim smile. "As you said, there's no way to sugarcoat the truth."

"There's more, sir. Sirs."

They both looked at him.

"Your friend, Binyamin — I think he should also talk about the camps. And I also think he and the others who were there should tell the truth about that SS colonel's death, including why he died."

Klink shook his head. "No, that I will not agree to."

"But, sir . . . " Tiptoe's eyes went to Hogan.

Hogan sat back, nursing the drink in his hand. He knew why Klink didn't want to agree. Over the past few days, Klink had slipped out of character very publicly. First when Binyamin arrived, and then with the subsequent unmasking in the tunnels after the mission. Over the years, Klink had been protective of his identity. With good cause. When others had found out about him, the consequences were enormous, and had nearly cost Klink not merely his life but also his sanity. Hogan had managed to talk Klink into letting the kommandant character go, and Klink had agreed. But the past few days . . . Still, Tiptoe's idea made sense.

Hogan looked at Klink. "I think you should think about it, Wilhelm," he said quietly. "Or let Binyamin make the decision. No, don't say anything yet," he added as Klink opened his mouth. "Just think about it. And talk to Binyamin."

"All right; I'll think about it."

Hogan sighed silently; Klink's tone wasn't very promising. "When do you want to talk to the men?"

"There's no point in putting it off. Tonight, midnight. And bring in Olsen and some of the underground leaders. They should also hear about the camps." _And_, he rubbed his aching temples, _there's something else they'll need to hear about — if London approves my request._

* * *

The _Meditation_ from the opera _Thais_ by Jules Massenet

There are a number of current recordings of this piece by various violinists. My favorite, and the way I envision Klink playing it, is by _Nadia Salerno-Sonnenberg_, Angel Records, 1988. It is available from and other vendors.

There is a recording of Jascha Heifetz playing the _Meditation_ in the 1940s. It's on _"Jascha Heifetz, Never-Before-Released and Rare Live Recordings_", Cembal d'amour, available through Amazon. I don't know if there were earlier recordings of Heifetz performing the _Meditation_. But given its popularity, it is likely that there was a recording of it available in the thirties. If not, then this is a case of literary license.

Heifetz did give a concert in Berlin in 1912.


	17. Chapter 17

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 17

It was after 2300, and, one by one, the officers of the camp — four captains and seven lieutenants — some of the barracks leaders, Hogan's team, Sergeant Wilson, Private Tiptoe, and those who'd been there the night of the unmasking were assembling in the radio room in the tunnel. Sergeant Olsen and some of the resistance people from Hammelburg — the local vet and trainer of the camp's dogs, Oskar Schnitzer(1); the owner of the only grocery left in town, Max Fleischer; and the bartender at the Hauserhof Hotel, Otto Metzer(2), were also present. It made for quite a crowd and no one, save for Hogan and Tiptoe, had any idea why they were there.

No, one other person knew. A few minutes before midnight, to the utter amazement of most of the men assembled, the Stage entered from the tunnel leading to the outside tree stump entrance. Low murmurs sounded as the Stage walked over to Hogan and greeted him with a handshake.

"Okay, I think we're all here," Hogan said. His eyes swept the assembled men. He almost nodded. Tiptoe had been right; the Stage's mystique, his reputation, should help blunt the terrible truth. Especially since all of them knew the consequences the mythic leader faced if the Nazis caught him even at this point in the war. "I'd like you to meet our guest. I'm not going to bother saying his name; you all know who he is. He has something to tell us." He turned to the man dressed in black. "The floor is yours, sir."

"Thank you, Colonel Hogan," said the soft voice. "But first, I took the liberty of informing London that I would be here at this time. If your radioman would kindly tune to this frequency," he handed Hogan a slip of paper, "I would appreciate it."

Surprised, Hogan glanced at the paper before handing it to Kinch. "Any more surprises?" he asked in an irritated whisper.

"That depends on London," was the even reply.

The Stage looked at the assembled men. He knew all of them by name, though they didn't know it; most of them knew him personally as the Kommandant. Now, they were looking at him with admiration, some with awe. How will they look at him when he finished? With anger? Disgust? Hatred? He didn't know.

_Admit it, you're afraid_. Afraid of the pain of admitting what the country he'd loved, the country he still loved, had become. Afraid of seeing in their eyes what he sometimes saw in his when he thought of the horrors of Nazis. Or was he simply afraid? "Wilhelm Klink is a very frightened man_,_" he'd admitted to Hogan a few weeks ago. When had he not been frightened? The sad truth was he couldn't remember. And for a bleak moment, he wondered if he would always remain afraid, even after this nightmare life he led ended. If it ended.

His eyes closed for an instant as he submerged the very human and very frightened part of his mind. When they opened, it was the mythic Stage who looked at the assembly. And he stepped away from Hogan.

"For years, you have been fighting Nazi Germany. Some of you were born here; you know first-hand the fear and terror of living in a country where a careless word at the wrong time can result in death or imprisonment. Some of you are latecomers to that fight, and you know of that fear and terror because you have had the misfortune of being captured and placed into a prison camp. But," his eyes met each man's in turn, "none of you yet know the true evil you have been fighting — an evil that led to the cold-blooded murder of millions of human beings." _There, the words were out. And already I can see their eyes change. Already . . ._

And he continued in a toneless voice, repeating the words he had said nearly twenty-four hours before to an ashen, stunned Private Tiptoe.

Finally, his words ended . . .

And silence replaced them. A silence that was more unnerving, more damning, than an outraged uproar. A silence that the Stage was unable to violate.

Then a voice sounded, Tiptoe's voice. "'O Lord, the God who avenges, O God who avenges, shine forth. Rise up, O Judge of the earth; pay back to the proud what they deserve. How long will the wicked, O Lord, how long will the wicked be jubilant?

"'They pour out arrogant words, all the evildoers are full of boasting. They crush your people, O Lord; they oppress your inheritance. They slay the widow and the alien; they murder the fatherless. They say, "The Lord does not see; the god of Jacob pays no heed."

"'Take heed, you senseless ones among the people; you fools, when will you become wise? Does he who formed the eye not see? Does he who disciplines nations not punish? Does he who teaches man lack knowledge? The Lord knows the thoughts of man; he knows that they are futile.

"'Blessed is the man you discipline, O Lord, the man you teach from your law. You grant him relief from your days of trouble, till a pit is dug for the wicked. For the Lord will not reject his people; he will never forsake his inheritance. Judgement will again be founded on the righteousness, and all the upright in heart will follow it.

"'Who will rise up for me against the wicked? Who will take a stand for me against evildoers? Unless the Lord had given me help, I would soon have dwelt in the silence of death. When I said, "My foot is slipping," your love, O Lord supported me. When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul.

"'Can a corrupt throne be allied with you — one that brings misery by its decrees? They band together against the righteous and condemn the innocent to death. But the Lord has become my fortress and my God the rock in whom I take refuge. He will repay them for their sins and destroy their wickedness; the Lord our God will destroy them.'"(3)

"Amen," the Stage whispered, and heard it echoed by others. He looked at Allied soldiers first, forcing them to meet his eyes.Some turned away, unable or unwilling to look at him. But most, most managed to look at him. With anger in their eyes and hatred, but it was an anger that didn't seem to be directed against him.

Then he looked at the Germans gathered in a corner. He could see the guilt and shame he also felt reflected in their eyes.

And he had seen Sergeant Glenn Olsen physically distancing himself from Max Fleischer. But after a few minutes, Olsen moved back to the pasty-faced Fleischer. Fleischer wasn't a young man and he had grown leaner as the years went by thanks to the rationing for civilians. But hearing about the camps had made him seem frailer and older than his years. And it was he who broke the silence that followed Tiptoe's prayer.

"I . . . " he said in a broken whisper. "We have a nephew we raised as a son when my sister died. He . . . he was caught after he helped get a Jewish family to safety. Friends told us he had been sent to Dachau. That was five years ago. Is there any hope he still lives?" he asked in an anguished whisper.

"There is always hope, Herr Fleischer," the Stage said softly, his glance flitting to Hogan. "No matter how impossible the situation."

"Is there any way that you," Fleischer began in a desperate voice. And stopped as the Stage shook his head.

"Not even my resources extend to the camps. Two years ago," he said with unmistakable pain in his voice, "I made the mistake of trying to infiltrate Auschwitz with the vain hope of a mission to destroy or at least damage the crematoriums. The undertaking cost the life of Lear, one of the Six, a man who had been with me since the beginning. I saw him die to protect me; he knew they would have broken him if he lived. And he was not the only one. His second, a woman named Lena, was also caught, tortured and eventually killed. They did break her, and that led to the torture and deaths of twenty-three others who were unable to escape and sent another sixty-seven running for their lives. Most attempts to track down individuals in the camps have also resulted in deaths or imprisonment. Some have managed to free or protect prisoners who were in the camps. But only because they had over the years built up connections and resources that allowed them to do so. When it comes to the camps, the SS noose is very tight and virtually impossible to escape. And organizations such as mine found themselves powerless to damage the system."

"I thought the great Stage could do anything," said a bitter voice to his left.

A voice he recognized, and he turned to face a belligerent Peter Newkirk. "If I could I would not need the help of thousands of individuals," he said softly, and to the surprise of most, "some of them mere children, across the face of Europe. Including the men in this camp. My war has never been one of vast armies engaging each other in open combat, where the best weapons and the greatest number of men and equipment will eventually win. I must choose the battles I fight carefully, Corporal; battles I can win. If I did not, I would have died or disappeared into one of the camps years ago. Or do you still see the hated Hun when you look at me and wish me dead?" he asked in an even softer voice, his cool eyes meeting Newkirk's.

Newkirk couldn't hold the gaze and turned away.

The Stage looked at the others in the chamber. "Do the rest of you?"

The men exchanged sober and uneasy looks, and a delayed murmur began to sound. A murmur that was interrupted by the radio screeching loudly.

Kinch hastily turned down the sound. "Sorry; I wanted to make sure I heard it." He put the headphones on and acknowledged the call. "Stage, it's for you," he said after a few minutes.

"Put it on the speaker; this affects everyone here."

Kinch nodded, adjusted a few dials, and handed him the microphone.

"Go ahead," the Stage said quietly.

"Edmondson here, Stage," said a rough voice. "As I expected, the Air Corps screamed all the way to the top, complaining that B-17s were good enough for the entire job."

"Precision bombing from 30,000 feet?"

"That's what I said when I explained the mission you wanted. Then they screamed about the pilots. Until," they could hear the humor in his voice, "until I told 'em you'd offered to supply Luftwaffe pilots. Then they stopped screaming. Not to mention Ike got tired of hearing them. So, those captured Messerschmitt jets are yours."

The Stage looked at his watch. "And the B-17s?"

"Left on schedule. They should be at the target in forty minutes."

"And the jets?"

"They'll be over the target shortly after 0830."

"Good. Tell the pilots to use recognition code C. Have they been warned that they may lose the engines when they get back?"

"Yes, which is why the Air Corps isn't happy. They don't want to lose any of the jets."

"Tell the Air Corps there's a town in Bavaria with enough jets to keep them happy after the war."

"Oh?"

"You'll have the location in a few weeks. Just make certain Patton doesn't destroy it in his haste to get to Berlin."

A quick laugh. "That's almost as impossible as your missions. Speaking of impossible, Stage . . . "

"Yes?"

"I was told to tell you, nobody expects you to deliver the crossing."

"Haven't you heard, Edmondson," his eyes met Newkirk's, who turned away, "I'm expected to do the impossible."

"Not this, Stage." Edmondson's voice turned unexpectedly sober. "That damn river is too long and too well guarded."

There was a sudden tension in the room as the men realized what they were talking about.

"The Allies will have their crossing, Edmondson, within two weeks," he said softly. "Even if it costs the life of every operative I have along the banks. It will be south of Dusseldorf, but I may not be able to give you a location beforehand."

"All right, Stage. I'll tell 'em to keep their eyes open."

"You do that." He gave the microphone back to Kinch.

Hogan was looking at him intently. "You promised the Allies a Rhine crossing?"

He nodded.

"You're crazy!"

"So I've been told."

"You just got through telling us you pick battles you can win," Hogan said. "This doesn't sound like one."

"The Rhine has to be crossed. And soon. The cost to Germany is too great if there is a delay of more than a few weeks. Even if those fools in Berlin can't see it," he said with rare bitterness.

"To Germany?"

His smile was also bitter. "Yes, to Germany. The war has to end quickly for Germany's sake. I love my country, Colonel Hogan. In spite of its crimes, in spite of the madness. So do those who follow me. And you find that incomprehensible."

Hogan found himself shaking his head. "No, not really."

The Stage looked away; there was unexpected pity in Hogan's eyes. "Herr Schnitzer, you and the others must return to Hammelburg. Inform your people that they must stay away from the eastern pass and roads shortly after dawn. The pass and the roads will be destroyed by the Messerschmitts."

"Destroyed?" Schnitzer echoed with uneasiness.

"Yes. The destruction of the pass and roads will make it impossible for the Panzers or any other army to get through and it will keep Stalag 13 safe."

"Safe?" from Hogan.

"Burkhalter has finally ordered the evacuation of the camp."

"Over my dead body," Hogan began angrily.

"Yes, it would be," was the response. "When the SS, backed by the Panzers, arrives to kill the Kommandant, you and anyone else who interferes. Even if Burkhalter hadn't ordered the evacuation, do you think the camp would be safe from the war? If the armies retreat through here or are backed up into this area, it would be a bloodbath for the prisoners remaining here. But with the pass blocked and the roads gone, Burkhalter will be unable to do anything about the camp. And Model will be unable to send troops into the area. I may not be able to do anything about the concentration camps, but I can keep this camp and the men in it safe."

"Thanks," Hogan said soberly.

"Call it payment for services rendered."

Hogan managed a small smile, and then asked curiously, "Why use the Messerschmitts?"

"Because of the proximity of Hammelburg. Obliterating the pass and roads will require bombing at a height of less than 5,000 feet. Allied planes will be spotted and destroyed long before they reach the targets. The jets with the correct recognition codes will be ignored. And they are fast enough to evade any fighters sent after them. But the roads leading to the Adolf Hitler Bridge will be bombed by B-17s, just in case the Panzers decide to cross there using temporary bridges."

"You seem to have everything covered."

"I try, Papa Bear. Herr Schnitzer, you must leave now."

"Jawohl, Stage, and danke." A heavy sigh. "We will warn the town, and we will talk of the camps. We, all of us, have much to talk about. And pray about. And . . . and cry about." He shook his head. "Gute Nacht, Colonel Hogan, meine Herren."

Schnitzer, Metzer and Fleischer, who was helped by Olsen, went toward the exit.

"We've got a lot of thinking to do too," Witton said quietly. "I don't know what to say."

"The camp has to know, Colonel," Martin said soberly.

"I know," Hogan said.

"Does Klink know about the camps?" Mitchell asked, a hint of anger in his voice. "And the others?"

Hogan looked evenly at him. "Klink knows. He's taking care of telling his men."

"I see."

Hogan shook his head. "No, you don't. Neither do most of you."

He walked away from the Stage toward the entrance to Barracks 2; the men turned to face him.

"You know what happened a few days ago when Miller's," Hogan nodded at the lieutenant, "work detail returned. You know Klink lied when he identified one of the men as Philip Wagner. Wagner is a Jew, an escapee from a concentration camp. As for why Klink lied," Hogan shrugged, "I'll leave that to you to figure out. But most of you don't know what happened afterwards in Barracks 2. It turns out that Philip Wagner was once close to Klink, a boy Klink had seen grow up, a boy Klink had seen, he'd thought, murdered before his eyes ten years ago." A low murmur of surprise startedamong the listening men. "And when Klink realized who Wagner was . . . " Hogan shook his head. "The word angry doesn't begin to cover it." His eyes began meeting those of the men around him, beginning with Newkirk's. "Klink's talked with Wagner a few times, and Wagner told him where he'd been for the past ten years. And where he'd been was in and out of those camps the Stage talked about.

"Then two days later, a seething SS colonel named Danziger arrived in camp, itching to get not only Wagner, but anyone else who'd helped him. Including us."

"It's a good thing that underground assassin followed him," Warren said.

"There was no underground assassin, Warren," Hogan said, knowing Klink might take his head off later. "Klink killed him."

"What?" Mitchell's voice sounded above the others. "Come on, Colonel, Klink wouldn't . . . You, yes. And I could see Klink letting you get away with it. But — "

"No, Captain," came Samuelson's uncharacteristically loud voice. "I was there. So were they." He nodded toward the Mulcahy twins. "The Kommandant killed that fiend. Killed him because Danziger knew Klink was protecting Wagner. And Danziger made it perfectly clear what he intended to do to Klink and Wagner. And all of us know that Danziger wouldn't have stopped with them. Every man on that detail was as good as dead, and God knows how many others would have died. The Kommandant saved our lives."

"And his own," Mitchell said.

Hogan nodded. "And his own. Does it matter?"

"No," Tiptoe said unexpectedly and forcefully, ignoring the fact that most of the men in the room outranked him. "The only thing that matters is the Kommandant saved the life of a concentration camp victim before he knew that it was a man he'd known. He also protected the men on that detail, and later he protected untold numbers of us from the retribution of a mad SS officer. And it wasn't the first time he'd done that. How many times had he interfered with the Gestapo or the SS by asserting his authority as the kommandant of this camp? He didn't have to. We've talked with men who've escaped fromother camps where POWs were harassed, bullied, beaten, starved and killed. If nothing else, the sight of those emaciated men who'd arrived a few weeks ago should have proven once and for all that Wilhelm Klink is not an evil man or a follower of the policies of Nazism. Nor any of the guards. Even Captain Gruber who in the past did treat us less leniently than we liked has followed the Kommandant's lead; he also saw the Kommandant kill Danziger. And he accepted the reason why. Whatever we think of the concentration camps and other Germans, we cannot think that all Germans are monsters and killers. If we do, we find ourselves perilously close to the mindset that created those camps in the first place." His gaze had taken in every man in the room as he talked. When he finished, he was looking at Newkirk. "Hate, jealousy, vengeance are terrible emotions, and they're emotions that led to the rise of the Nazis. Isn't that right, Stage?"

He looked around for the masked man. So did the others.

"Hey, he's gone," Warren said.

"Where'd he go?" Mitchell asked.

Despite the seriousness of the meeting, Hogan found himself chuckling. He hadn't been paying attention either. "Wherever he," Hogan started. And was interrupted by the sound of bombs dropping not far away.

Kinch looked at his watch. "The first bombing run, Colonel."

"I hope they know we're here," Samuelson said, a trace of fear in his voice.

The sounds, even through the tunnels, intensified.

"I wish we could see what's going on," Miller murmured.

"We can," Carter said. "If we go up the hill overlooking the camp. It's high enough."

"Uh, huh," Hogan said evenly. "And I'd bet that some of the guards have the same idea."

"Oh. Right, sir."

"Okay, back to the issue at hand. Start talking about the camps informally. Tomorrow, make that later today, after the second mess, we'll get the barracks leaders together, and I'll tell them."

"Sounds good, Colonel," Witton said.

"Then, dismissed."

Hogan watched as the men began dispersing into the tunnel complex. Baker sat down at the radio for his shift. Hogan looked around for the others. He'd seen Carter and Kinch going up the ladder to Barracks 2. But he'd lost track of Newkirk and LeBeau. LeBeau had gone white as a sheet as the Stage talked about the concentration camps. And Newkirk . . .

Newkirk had surprised him. Newkirk and LeBeau had always been more disrespectful, more open about their animosity toward Klink than most of the men. And Hogan had thought that Newkirk's, and LeBeau's, apology after Richmond's funeral had taken care of it. But now he wasn't sure. At least about Newkirk. The news about the camps had set him off again, even at the Stage — and he knew better than most of the others in the room.

Hogan shook his head, heading for the ladder to his barracks. For now, he was willing to let Newkirk think things through and realize what he was doing. But if Newkirk continued . . .

_God, I hope not! If one of my men treats the Germans badly, then how can I expect the others to behave? And if he begins to do it openly . . . _

_I don't know what's wrong, Peter, but for God's sake, think! I need to count on you, especially now that we can see the end coming. _

Hogan sighed loudly, attracting a puzzled look from Baker. Hogan smiled at him, belying his own worries, and started up the ladder.

* * *

1 "The Informer"

2 "The Gasoline War"

3 Psalm 94: _New International Version_


	18. Chapter 18

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 18

Sergeants James Kinchloe, Andrew Carter and Walter Red Hand, despite their fatigue, didn't head for their bunks. Instead, Kinch went over to the stove and picked up the coffeepot and some tin cups as Carter and Red Hand sat at the table.

"Coffee?" he asked softly so as not to awaken the men sleeping on their bunks.

"Thank you," Red Hand said, taking a cup.

"Carter?" Kinch asked the pale young sergeant.

Carter looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"Coffee?"

"Uh, no, thank you." And he fell silent.

Kinch and Red Hand exchanged looks. Something was bothering their young friend.

_Hell, it's bothering me! _Kinch thought as he put the coffeepot back on the stove.

A noise from the tunnel entrance, and the bunk lifted up, showing Hogan.

Hogan looked at the seated men. "Something wrong?"

Kinch shook his head. "Just getting a final cup, Colonel. Would you like one?"

"No, thanks. Don't stay up too long. It'll get busy later."

"No, sir," Kinch said. "I mean, yes, sir."

Hogan smiled faintly. "Good night."

"Good night, sir."

The door closed behind Hogan.

Kinch took a sip of his coffee and made a face at its bitter taste. He should sweeten it; where was that sugar?

"I don't believe it," Carter said too loudly. "It's a lie!"

Kinch and Red Hand were startled, and concerned.

"What is a lie, Little Deer?" Red Hand asked in a gentle voice.

"What he said . . . "

Again the glances between Red Hand and Kinch.

"Andrew, are you saying the Stage lied to us?" Kinch asked softly.

Andrew Carter blinked. "I didn't say that!"

"You just said it was a lie."

"It has to be!" Carter said indignantly. "Nobody can kill millions of people and nobody knows about it."

Kinch and Red Hand exchanged looks again, and Kinch shook his head.

"Little Deer," Red Hand said quietly, "you know the Stage. You know who he is, what he's done. Do you believe he would tell us an untruth? An untruth so . . . ugly?"

"N-no-ooooo . . . But . . . "

"If he did not lie, then he told the truth."

"But he's wrong! He's got to be wrong!" Desperation crept into Carter's voice. "It can't be true! Okay, the SS is bad. And . . . and the Gestapo. And even some soldiers. And I know they kill people . . . But he said," his voice threatened to break, "he said women, children, old folks . . . He said millions. That many people. You can't kill that many people!"

"And how many die in bombings, Little Deer?" Red Hand asked. "How many thousands, hundreds of thousands?"

"But that's different!"

"Is it?" Red Hand said less gently. "Because it is war? The same weapons can be and are used against civilians. A bomb doesn't care if it's a soldier or a baby. It kills just the same. So does gas.

"But — "

"Give a man, give a country enough hate," Red Hand said quietly, "and people will kill. Kill anyone, including the babies and the old. It has happened before, Little Deer. In other times, in other places. Even Indians have killed the innocent."

"But he said millions — "

"Millions," Kinch said softly. "Two thousand years ago, there were spears and arrows and swords. Then came cannons and artillery. Then rifles and machine guns. Now we have bombs that can wipe out a city with thousands of people in it. And in time . . . " His head shook. "Sometimes I find myself thinking that only thing people have gotten better at is killing each other."

"That's not fair," Carter whispered. "There are a lot of good things. Like medicine."

"Yeah, medicine." Kinch smiled cynically. "We can fix people so that they can go back to killing each other."

Carter stared at him. "You're wrong!"

"Am I? I don't know, Andrew. I knew there was a lot wrong here. I knew people would always find excuses to hate and kill. But this . . . " He looked at Carter. "And what do you think will happen when the others find out? How do guys like Chaykin and Yeager act now? What do you think their reaction will be? And it won't be because they like Jews. They don't. What they like is the kind of mentality that let the Nazis terrorize and kill innocent people." He stood. "I'm going to bed. Maybe I can forget for awhile." Kinch turned and walked back to his bunk.

Carter looked after him in surprise. "He's angry. Kinch is angry."

"Of course, he is angry, Little Deer. I am angry too. At the stupidity, at the senseless, unjust hate. And you should be as well. What you should not be is blind."

Carter stared at him.

"Far too many people are blind to the ugliness around them. They see only their own little worlds and ignore what is outside. As the Germans did. It was easier to ignore the Nazis and what they did than to risk doing something about it." A skewed smile. "Of course, it is easy for us to say the Germans should have known, should have done something. We did not live under the Nazis or have to risk losing our families, our lives." He shook his head. "And that is why people will damn the Germans. They will say the Germans should have done something. Conveniently forgetting the times they let ugliness exist in their own neighborhoods because they were afraid of getting involved, afraid of getting hurt."

Carter stared at him. He felt a thread of surprise that Red Hand, a man of few words, had said so much. But he was more surprised at what Red Hand had said. And he was confused as well. In Andrew's tidy little world, people cared for each other, looked after each other, and wouldn't let anything bad happen to anyone.

_They wouldn't? What about Mrs. Hanks? Her husband used to beat her whenever he got drunk. Which was pretty much all the time. And nobody said anything. _

_Or old man Branson. All the kids knew what he was like and avoided him. But there were some who couldn't avoid him._

"But that's different," he said aloud. "That's not killing people. That's not . . . " And he fell silent as he saw Red Hand's knowing gaze.

"It is not hard, is it, Little Deer? To be blind and not see," Red Hand said softly. He rose. "Think on it, my friend. And learn." He walked over to his bunk.

Carter sat at the table for a long time before finally going to his own bunk.

And as the candle flickered in the night air, others in the barracks who had not been sleeping and who had overheard the conversation also struggled to understand the unthinkable.

...

Corporal Louis LeBeau had disappeared into the crowd and instead of going up to his quarters, he used the ladder to the infirmary's supply room.

LeBeau opened the door quietly and looked at the thin man lying on the cot a few feet away from the door. Or he thought he'd opened the door quietly. To his surprise, Binyamin heard the door opening. LeBeau pulled off his beret and walked over to the cot.

"I did not mean to wake you," LeBeau said in German.

Binyamin smiled faintly. "I am a very light sleeper. A habit instilled by Danziger."

LeBeau nodded. Now that he was here, he wasn't sure what to say.

"You wish to see Sergeant Wilson? He has gone to his room."

LeBeau shook his head. "No." He looked at Binyamin indecisively.

"You wish to see me?" Binyamin guessed.

LeBeau laughed harshly. "I am not sure. But . . . " He made up his mind. "Are you a rabbi?"

"I was studying to be one when I was captured," he said sadly.

LeBeau nodded. "The Stage told us about the concentration camps. And the death camps. You were at some of them."

Binyamin nodded.

LeBeau pulled up a stool and sat beside him. "Were you ever in France?"

"A few months."

"Were there camps in France?"

"Ja. Some were labor camps. Most were transit camps for Jews sent to Auschwitz and elsewhere."

LeBeau flinched. "Then," he whispered, "perhaps we should talk."

Binyamin looked at him for a long moment before saying quietly, "Perhaps we should."

LeBeau moved nearer to the cot and began talking in a low whisper.

They talked far into the night about the camps, about France, about things that LeBeau had forgotten or that he had wanted to forget.

Finally, LeBeau, his back aching from the low stool, got up. "Merci, Rabbi, for telling me these things."

"I hope I was of some help."

LeBeau nodded. "You were. For so long, I was blinded by La Belle France that I was determined to forget who I was."

"The French have a great culture, a great appetite for life."

LeBeau nodded. "Yes, we do. But," his eyes met Binyamin's soberly, "we also prefer hiding the truth if it violates our French pride."

"Many people do."

"Perhaps. But sometimes we French prefer living with our delusions." LeBeau shook his head. "And our illusions. I know I did. It is time to stop."

Binyamin nodded. "For most of us, that is true." Then he smiled gently. "Wilhelm has given me permission to use the library before lights-out."

"For what?"

"Do you think you could find nine men for a minyan?"(1)

LeBeau looked at him evenly. "I need only find eight, and, yes, I can."

"Danke schön, Louis LeBeau."

LeBeau bowed. "Merci beaucoup, Binyamin Weiner. I will see you later."

...

Corporal Peter Newkirk found an unused part of the tunnel complex and looked around. They'd once used this room to make trinkets to sell to German civilians as a way of making money. But that was long ago and this room had been abandoned. As a result, some of the roof had collapsed from the hard winter's freeze and snow. He didn't dare go far inside for fear of being trapped; instead, he sat on a bench near the entrance. It was quiet here. And private. And he neededboth right now.

He sighed softly to himself as he thought about the past few hours.

_God, what a bloody mess I made. How could I say those things? To him, of all people?_

_He deserved it, _came the unbidden thought_. Him and all krauts. They should all be . . ._

_Tortured, killed? Hochstetter and Reiner already tried. And they're just the ones we know about._

_I didn't really mean to. It's just the shock . . . _

_You meant to. For once, be honest with yourself, Petey boy. You still hate them. You still hate . . . him?_

_Not a pretty picture is it, Petey? Not pretty at all. So much hate, so much anger._

_And not for the first time. Even as a kid, it didn't take much to get me going. Only then, it was just a bloke or two. Now, it was a whole group of people, all Germans._

_All? Schnitzer, Otto, Max? Schultz? They're Germans too. And so is the Stage. He doesn't hate, does he? _

_Well, why should he? Who'd he lose? Maybe he never lost anyone that mattered. We all heard him — he doesn't care if his operatives die as long as they do the job. He doesn't . . . _

_The bloody hell he doesn't. When his nephew died, he cried in the office, and he knew about the bug. And when he was telling us about that guy Lear, he sounded like it hurt._

_Maybe it was an act. I mean the man's a bloody genius at playing parts. Maybe he . . . _

_Maybe I'm a bigger fool than I ever thought he was. Especially since I mouthed off in front of the Colonel, the officers and everyone else, including my mates._ He shook his head._ I botched it up. I deserve to be court-martialed, drummed out of the team, drummed out of the camp, drummed . . . _

He glanced at the tunnel outside the room and unconsciously straightened his shoulders._ There's only one way to make things right, Petey boy. And you know what it is._

He stood and walked slowly down the tunnel complex to theladder leading to Klink's quarters. He stared up at the ladder, and before he could change his mind, leapt nimbly up the ladder.

...

Wilhelm Klink, dressed in a navy blue robe, came out of the bathroom and walked to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door and looked at the contents. The days or rather nights when he could have a "nightcap" of warm milk or hot cocoa were long gone. The refrigerator with its nearly empty shelves stared back at him mutely. The only thing in there with any pretense of taste was the half-filled wine bottle. And even that was debatable; it was one of the lesser vintages in his cellar. He took the bottle and poured himself a glass of wine. Then he put the bottle back into the refrigerator and carried the glass back to the living room.

A glance at the clock. Nearly three a.m., long past his bedtime, and he was so very tired. He turned on the record player. The music and wine would relax him before going to bed. He sat down on the sofa, sipping the wine. Then, as the music engulfed him in its soothing beauty, he put the glass down. His eyes closed as he listened to the _Meditation_.

He jerked awake. Something had intruded on his dozing mind. The something was the sound of the potbelly stove moving.

_Now, what does Hogan want_? _It had better be important, or . . . _

He frowned as he saw Newkirk's head come out of the floor.

Newkirk saw Klink and gulped nervously. Holding fast to his resolve, Newkirk came up from the tunnel, and stood facing Klink, his cap twisting in his hands.

"Is there a problem, Corporal?" Klink asked, reaching for the wineglass. "Something that couldn't wait until a decent hour?"

Newkirk flinched at the mild tone. He'd rather that Klink yelled at him; it would give him something to react against.

"I, er, I, uh, just came by to apologize for what I said earlier."

"I see," said the flat voice.

"Well, that's all I have to say." His cap still twisting in his hands, Newkirk turned away.

"Halt!" came the order. "You are not dismissed, Corporal," said the harsh voice.

Surprise and anger warred on Newkirk's face as he turnedaround. "What?"

Klink stood, his expression stern. "You come in here uninvited at three in the morning after behaving in a rude manner earlier, without considering whether I wanted or cared to see you and without any regard for my privacy, to say you're sorry. And you think you can just, I believe the expression is, waltz out of here and think that excuses you. Not this time, Corporal. Since you brought on this confrontation, at the very least you owe me an explanation for your behavior."

Newkirk could feel himself getting angry again. "I don't owe you nothin', you st . . . " He stopped, suddenly realizing what he was saying. This time, he had the grace to look flustered, and ashamed.

"Should I finish that sentence, Corporal?" asked the steely voice.

"No, sir," Newkirk said, unusually subdued.

"This is more than the camps, isn't it?"

"Look, sir, let it go. I'm sorry, that's all I can say. If it's not good enough, then, all right, it's not." He looked down at the cap still twisting in his fingers.

"Do you think you're the only one who's ever lost a loved one, Corporal?" was the soft question.

Newkirk looked at him in astonishment.

"Do you think that justifies your hatred of me, of all Germans?"

"I . . . I don' know what you're talking about," Newkirk mumbled.

"When I knew you were part of Hogan's team, I had London send me all the information they had on you," said the quiet voice.

"You know."

Klink nodded. "But I want you to tell me."

"No," Newkirk said flatly. "You don't have the right — "

"When you've hated me for years, when you insult me to my face, when you come into my quarters uninvited and as far as I can see unrepentant, I have the right. Now, Corporal, you tell me why you still hate me, hate all Germans."

Emotions warred within Newkirk, twisted his face. Finally, the words tumbled, raced out, "Because you killed Hal! Gawd! He was gonna be a pilot; he was so thrilled — that's all he could see. And get hisself and Mum and Mavis and the kids out of that cold-water flat they lived in.

"He had his whole life to live. He was a baby, not even twenty-one. And you killed him!" The tears he'd long suppressed started to flow. "He shouldna died; it wasn't right!"

"No, Corporal, it wasn't," Klink said in a weary voice. "It wasn't right that little Willi died, or Binyamin, or the tens of thousands who die in the bombings, or the millions of others. And why do you think all those people died, Corporal? Because of hate. Hatred of outsiders, of the different ones, or just blind, unreasoning hate for no reason." He looked at Newkirk. "Beware your hate, Peter Newkirk. It will destroy you, or others, if it continues."

"Don't tell me you don't hate," Newkirk scoffed. "Hochstetter, Reiner."

Klink looked at him evenly and shook his head. "I hate what they represent, I hate what they've done, but hate them as people?" He shook his head. "I can't. I don't have the energy or the luxury."

Newkirk stared at him. "Luxury!"

"Perhaps that is not the right word. But . . . When Colonel Hogan thought he hated me, did he think clearly? Did you? That's what hate does — it blinds you until all you can see is your hate. And when enough people hate so easily, then others, countless others, pay the price." He rubbed his face. "I am very tired. The morning will come all too quickly, and the day will not be easy. The hate you feel, well, you will have plenty of company when the prisoners hear about the concentration camps." He looked soberly at Newkirk. "Apology accepted, Corporal. But next time, use the door."

"Uh, yes, sir. I mean, no, sir." Klink's eyebrow lifted. "What I mean is I think I know what you mean. I guess it was just easier to hate you instead of seeing what you'd really done here. I guess part of me felt like I was betrayin' Hal if I didn't hate Germans and want them dead."

"Would your brother have wanted you to feel like that?"

Newkirk shook his head. "No, he wouldn't. He was a good kid; didn' have a mean bone in his body. He always wanted the best for everyone." His head shook again. "I guess I've got some thinkin' to do. Sorry to bother you, sir." He started for the door.

"Corporal," Klink said mildly, "I think you'd better leave the way you came."

"Oh. Yes, sir, sorry, sir." Sheepishly, Newkirk went back to the stove and disappeared into the tunnel.

Klink shook his head. _I made it sound so easy, didn't I? Just stop hating. _A distorted smile. _How long did it take me when I found out? How long . . . _

Klink turned away, intending to head for the bedroom. And stopped and looked back at the stove and frowned_. Is there any way I can block that entrance from here? Hogan doesn't need it. The guards let him walk around at will. But it would stop other unauthorized visitors._

Another problem to deal with in the morning. A silent sigh. Lately, there seemed to be no end to the problems to deal with. He shook his head. After shutting off the record player, he walked back to his bedroom, taking the glass of wine with him.

...

Newkirk wandered down the tunnels, his mind in turmoil, thinking about what had happened._ He's right you know. Hate does blind you. He didn't kill Hal . . . _

_He didn't, but his Luftwaffe pals . . . _

_Easy now, Petey. Easy. You're doing it again. You're . . ._

He stopped abruptly as he reached the radio room.

Baker looked at him curiously. "Still here? I thought you went to get some sleep."

Newkirk shook his head. "Couldn't. Too much thinking to do."

Baker nodded. "I know what you mean. Can't stop thinking about those camps. If it hadn't been the Stage who said it, I'm not sure I'd have believed it. It's just too . . . " He shook his head this time.

"Yeah," Newkirk said noncommittally. "Why don't you go up, mate? I'll keep watch down here. I'm not sleepy."

"Are you sure?"

Newkirk nodded. "Yeah. I got some more thinking to do, and I can do it just as easy here."

Baker smiled faintly as he pulled off the headphones. "I'd rather do it in bed. Thanks, Newkirk."

Newkirk nodded and put on the headphones. "Night, mate."

...

Richard Baker quietly climbed into his bunk and lay down. Around him were the sounds of snoring and sleeping men. The normal familiar sounds of the night in the barracks. Except normal wasn't the word he'd use tonight. He almost wished hehadn't taken Newkirk up on his offer to watch the radio. That at least kept him from thinking too much. But now in the quiet of the barracks, he was thinking too many thoughts. The news of the camps had firmed up his resolve to stay here as long as he could. Germany would need all the help it could get after the war. When the news of the camps hit the papers back home . . .

He winced; he had no trouble imagining the uproar, the hate, that would follow. And he knew that all Germans would be tarred with that brush, whether they had anything to do with the camps or not.

Baker understood hate like that all too well. It had followed him all of his life. One colored man stole, then all colored men were suspected of theft. One colored man looked at a white woman, then all colored men had to be beaten or hung to keep them away from white women. It had been many long years since he'd seen that lynching; he'd been only a boy. But the memory of it was burned into his mind. That lynching had caused his parents to pack up and leave their farm for Atlanta and the hope that maybe their children wouldn't have to deal with that kind of terror any more.

Atlanta had been good for them. His father had gotten a decent job with a produce wholesaler. As the business expanded, so did his father's responsibilities and income. And they became part of Atlanta's growing colored middle class population. In that community, he'd found an unusual freedom. Unlike Kinch, Baker had gone to college and graduated with a degree in business from Howard University. While at Howard, he'd been lucky enough to meet people, colored and white, who could see beyond the stifling segregated life he'd known while he was growing up. And he'd stayed in Washington, D.C. after graduation, working in a variety of white collar jobs, including a stint at a colored radio station, not quite sure of what he wanted to do.

Then came the war, and he'd enlisted in the Army. Baker got lucky again. Instead of getting into menial occupations, like most colored men, his radio background proved to be a boon.

As it had in this camp. Getting shot down while on a rare surveillance mission didn't seem to be the best thing that could happen to him. But, oddly, it turned out to be when he found himself at Stalag Luft 13, a place where his color didn't matter. And where he had a glimpse of life in uniform as it could be.

Oh, he had no illusions that life in the postwar Air Corps was going to be as easygoing (as long as you didn't think about the odds of getting killed) as life was under the unorthodox Colonel Hogan. Or as free from outward prejudice. But, if nothing else, his experiences here had given him some hope that things didn't need to stay the same after the war. Most of the men and officers here accepted him and Kinch and the other coloreds as equals. And he'd heard that the colored fighter pilots, those Tuskegee Airmen, had the best record in the Air Corps.(2) And everyone knew it. Once this war ended, and it couldn't be more than a few months now, not even the Air Corps could go back to the way it was. There were changes coming, and Richard Baker wanted to be part of them.

* * *

1 A minyan is a Jewish prayer service requiring a minimum of ten adult men.

2 The 332nd Fighter Group under the command of Colonel Benjamin Davis had the distinction of never losing a bomber while flying escort. It was the only fighter group able to make that claim.


	19. Chapter 19

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 19

Wilhelm Klink stood unseen outside the door to the guards' barracks common room, listening as Gruber told the guards who were going on duty about the concentration camps. Then he heard nothing for long slow minutes.

Finally . . .

"Nein!" came Schuster's explosive retort. "Herr Hauptmann, Nein! That is Allied propaganda."

A few low murmurs agreed with him.

"It is not," Gruber said in an even voice.

"I have seen subcamps," Langenscheidt said in a low voice. "Sl-slave laborers, children, women, exhausted, starving."

"We are all starving," said Wendorf with a bark of laughter. "Or close to it. And we have heard the stories of the Soviets too. But not of these camps. Nein, we are not murderers."

"Have you seen these camps, Herr Hauptmann," asked the much quieter one-armed Oskar Kaufmann.

"I have not," Gruber had to admit.

"I have." Klink stepped into the room. "As you were," he said as the men jumped to attention. His eyes went to Schuster and Wendorf and the others. "I have seen the camps. I have seen the crematoriums and smelled the stench of burning human flesh. And seen the cold-blooded murders of innocents. The camps are real. The deaths are real. And refusing to acknowledge that they exist, that millions were murdered, will not change the truth. And it is a truth that every German will have to face when this war ends and for many years to come."

"But," muttered gray-haired and stooped Private Schoenfeld, "Herr Kommandant, we didn't do anything. We didn't know."

"The world will not care or listen," Klink said sadly. "All they will see are the deaths. And that Germans caused them. And that is what we will have to live with. Beginning now. Some of the prisoners already know about the camps. By tomorrow, they will all know about the camps. And it may be . . . uncomfortable for us."

Alarm crossed some of the faces; anger crossed others; resignation still others.

"What do we do?" asked the youngest guard, Gustav Hirschfeld, in a shaking voice.

"We do our duty," Schultz said firmly. "No more, no less. We do not give the prisoners more reasons to hate Germans."

"But we must defend," began Schuster.

Klink shook his head. "Colonel Hogan will control his men, and I," his eyes met Schuster's, "will control mine. There will be no violence, no killing, on either side."

"Not all of the prisoners are as tolerant as Colonel Hogan, Herr Kommandant," Klaus Krieger, one of the oldest men in the camp, said evenly.

"They are not," Klink agreed. "But Colonel Hogan understands the need to keep peace. I cannot promise that there will be no incidents of any kind. Nor can he. But I can promise that he will put a stop to them if they occur. As will I. Too many have already been hurt in this war. As long as I am in command, there will be no bloodshed. On either side."

"And when you are not in command?" Schuster asked defiantly as the others stared at him in disbelief.

But Klink merely nodded. "That time will come. Before it does, you will have a decision to make. For now, we are apart from the war. In time, the war will find us. The Allies will find us. You will have to decide to which Germany you are loyal — the one that murdered innocent people for no reason, the one that will die, the one that deserves to die, or the Germany that will be reborn from her ashes and live in peace with her neighbors."

"What do you want us to do, Herr Kommandant?" Hirschfeld pleaded.

Klink shook his head. "The choice is yours to make."

"Many of us have forgotten what a choice is, Herr Kommandant," Kaufmann said quietly. "Many of us have done what we were told, regardless of our feelings." He looked at Klink soberly. "And that is why the camps existed."

"One of the reasons, Corporal."

"To which Germany are you loyal, Herr Kommandant?" Emil Reinwald asked, curiosity in his voice.

Klink nearly smiled as most of the others stared at Reinwald, surprised that he would dare ask the question. "The one I have always been loyal to, private," Klink said evenly. "I have spent most of my life in the military. And I swore an oath to Germany, to defend her from all her enemies, internal as well as external. And it is an oath I have never forsaken. You may not agree with all of my choices, but whatever I have done, whatever I will do, that oath has been the reason for it. And part of that means safeguarding the prisoners in my care and the men in my command for as long as I can."

"Does that include safeguarding a man who had no business coming to this camp?" Wendorf asked belligerently.

"Safeguarding him was a side effect; I was protecting the work detail."

"By putting us at risk," Schuster said.

"You admit there is a risk."

"I know it is not wise to lie to the Gestapo or the SS. They kill."

"Ja, they do. Germans as well as others. Is that the kind of Germany you want your children to live in?"

Schuster didn't answer though several of the others shook their heads.

Klink glanced at the clock across the room. "It is nearly time for roll call and the change of shift. The next few days will be difficult for all of us. There is very little left that Germans have to be proud of. Doing your duty well, despite the anger you will encounter, can be one of them. Force them to judge you by what you do and not by the actions of a few. It is the only way to earn their respect. And forgiveness."

He fell silent, watching the expressions of the men before him. A mix of emotions was visible on their faces. Some fear, some determination, mostly resignation to what the day will bring. But a couple of them — those Gruber, Schultz and Langenscheidt would have to watch. His role as the kommandant of the camp was coming to an end — more quickly than any of them could guess. But he would not leave as long as there was a danger to it, especially from within.

Gruber looked at him, asking permission to dismiss the men. Klink nodded soberly, and, after saluting him, the men filed out slowly. After a moment, Klink followed them, going to his place on the porch at the Kommandantur, waiting for the prisoners to assemble for roll call.

...

Roll call. And another cold, damp morning, with yet another overcast sky.

Hogan looked around at the shivering men standing in front of each barracks and resisted the impulse to rub his sore arm. His team looked tired, more tired than normal. And it was a look reflected on other faces as well — the faces of the ones who'd been in the tunnels a few short hours ago. It didn't look like they'd gotten much sleep. And neither did he. Despite hearing about the camps from Binyamin, he'd still felt cold horror creeping over him as the Stage told them about the camps. And he'd also felt the disbelief. Despite what he'd thought he'd known about the Nazis, it was still too much to grasp, too unbelievable. And if that was his reaction, how did the Germans in the tunnel feel? They'd been living with fear for much longer than he. And even they had trouble believing how bad it really was.

An inward sigh. What the rest of the world will believe once the news of the camps became known — that, unfortunately, he had no trouble envisioning. All Germans would be tarred by the brush of Nazism, including the ones who'd fought against it the longest.

_But not here. Not if I can help it._ He looked at Klink on the porch. _Not_ _if _we_ can help it._

Roll call had ended. Some of the men were returning to the barracks; others were starting to make their way toward the mess hall for breakfast. Klink was walking down the office stairs, intending to go back to the guards' barracks for the talk with the evening shift.

Then the sound started, and stopped the men in their tracks. Others came out from the buildings to see what the noise was.

Hogan had reached Klink, Langenscheidt, Gruber and Schultz, who were looking skyward.

"See anything?" Hogan asked, his eyes also on the gray horizon.

Klink shook his head.

"There!" Langenscheidt shouted and pointed over the field across from the back gate. "There, Herr Kommandant!"

They looked.

"My God," Hogan said reverently as the three aircraft zoomed toward them. In seconds, all three were over the camp, disappearing over the low hills on the other side. "Those were the jets?"

Klink nodded. "The Me-262's."

"How fast are those things?"

"Cruising speed, over four hundred."

"That's almost twice as fast as a P-51!"

Klink nodded.

"Amazing," Gruber said. "What are they doing here, Herr Kommandant?"

Klink looked soberly at his second-in-command. "I'm afraid . . . "

Then they heard it. In the distance, but there was no mistaking the sound of massive explosions.

Even Langenscheidt realized what was happening. "They are bombing. What are they bombing?"

"The eastern pass," Klink said softly. "And the roads leading east."

"But . . . But why are they bombing our roads?"

"The jets are manned by Allied pilots. They are destroying the roads to this area. And out of this area," Klink continued, earning looks from Gruber and Schultz. "We are now truly cut off from the war."

"May I ask why, Herr Kommandant?" Gruber asked.

"Burkhalter ordered the evacuation of the camp," Klink said quietly. "Now it no longer possible. And there is no longer a possibility that the fighting will reach us. Not until the pass and the roads have been cleared. And that will not happen for a long time.

Gruber nodded.

Langenscheidt was staring at Klink with an open mouth, not quite believing what he'd heard. "Who are you?" he managed to gasp, getting a sharp look from Schultz.

The sound of the returning jets forestalled any answer. Again, the jets zoomed over the camp. One of them waggled his wings, getting a smile from Hogan.

"I would love to fly one of those," Hogan said.

"I thought bombers were more your style."

"I like things that go fast, and those babies are fast," Hogan said.

"Yes. But if they keep pushing those engines, they'll burn up by the time they return to base. The designers haven't figured out how to handle the power and keep the engines from burning out."

"They will."

Klink smiled. "For which air force?"

"Mine, of course."

"Of course," Klink echoed ironically. "Care to accompany me to town?"

"Why?"

"To see what damage the jets did."

Hogan nodded.

"Sergeant Langenscheidt, you will drive us. Please get my car."

Langenscheidt gulped, saluted and left.

"Hautpmann Gruber, I'm afraid I'm leaving it to you and Sergeant Schultz to handle the evening shift. If there are any doubters as there were this morning, I will talk to them before they go on duty tonight."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

Schultz and Gruber left them, returning to the guards' barracks.

"Doubters?" Hogan asked.

"Some of the men thought the stories about the camps were Allied propaganda."

"I wish they were."

"No more than I do," Klink said softly.

Langenscheidt stopped the car beside them. Klink opened the door and got inside, followed by Hogan.

The car drove slowly out of the camp. Not unobserved.

Yeager spat noisily as Klink's car passed him and some of his bunkmates. "Add one more to the list, Stinky."

"List? What list?" Liebowitz asked.

"The list we're going to show the brass when they show up," Stinky said, pulling a notepad from his pocket. "Of the stuff Hogan's done or said." He scribbled a few lines and put the pad back into his pocket. He grinned as he walked away with Yeager.

Liebowitz frowned and shook his head. For some reason, knowing there was a list bothered him. He was still shaking his head as he walked toward the mess hall for breakfast.

...

"How's your arm?" Klink asked.

"A bit sore," Hogan admitted. He glanced at Klink's profile as they drove toward Hammelburg. "You look like hell. How much sleep did you get?"

"Not much," Klink said. "A couple of hours last night."

"Uh, huh. And the night before when you were babysitting me? And the night before that when Danziger made you go look for the convoy? A couple of hours again?"

"Roughly."

"How long do you think you can keep it up?"

"You sound like my mother. Or Schultz."

"Both of them have more sense than you."

Klink rubbed his forehead. "I am not in the mood, Colonel Hogan."

_Stubborn, pig-headed . . . Just like me, _Hogan was forced to admit. _Only more so. _He sighed. Getting angry wouldn't help either one of them. Besides, his arm hurt.

Langenscheidt glanced back at the two men in the rearview mirror, half-glad they were silent, and half wishing they'd talk to each other. It would have saved him having to listen to himself. _Who is he? _The question kept going over and over inside his head. _Who is he? _And did he dare ask the Kommandant again?

...

Hogan winced as they drove past what remained of Hammelburg. _God, what a mess! And how long will it take to clean up? A long time now that most of the population was gone. And how many of them would come back? And what would they come back to? At least, this damage should be it. If the roads and the pass were blocked, what was left of Hammelburg would survive. If . . . _

_..._

After driving down a winding road for a while, Langenscheidt stopped the car at the gated entrance to the drive of the River View Lodge. The lodge overlooked the plain and Ruhr River beyond the pass. At last report, part of the Fifth Panzer Army was encamped down there, waiting to use the autobahn to Düsseldorf. Waiting to hold back the Allied forces everyone knew were coming.

Klink and Hogan got out of the car.

"Wait here," Klink told Langenscheidt. He took off his overcoat and dropped it inside the car.

"It's a bit cold," Hogan said, pulling up his collar.

"I'll warm up on the hike up to the lodge." Klink hung the strap of the field glasses around his neck.

"And why are we walking?" Hogan said, following Klink inside the gated entrance.

Klink pointed at the rutted, muddy road. "I'd rather the car didn't get stuck."

Hogan grimaced and nodded.

It took half an hour of strenuous walking in the trees alongside the nearly impassable road to reach the circular gravel parking area of the lodge.

"Nice place," Hogan said, stopping to catch his breath and admiring the sprawling three-story turreted structure. "I didn't know this was here."

"No factories or bridges nearby to blow up," Klink said.

Hogan smiled. "I guess not."

They walked into the front lobby. The careworn owner, Frau Magda Engel, looked surprised to see them and she hurried over.

"Herr Oberst," she greeted in a flustered voice. "It is an honor to — "

Klink held up a gloved hand. "Bitte, Frau Engel," Klink said. "I am Kommandant Klink of Stalag Luft 13, and this is Oberst Hogan, the senior prisoner at the camp. We are here to see what damage the bombing did. You have an overlook here, do you not?"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant. Others have also come to see the damage. If you would, bitte, go straight through this door and into the lounge, there is an outside terrace there."

"Danke, Frau Engel. Do not trouble yourself. We will find our way."

"Danke, Herr Kommandant, Herr Oberst." She settled herself behind the desk again and bent over her books, a frown settling over her face as she looked at the paltry amounts.

There was a sober group assembled on the overlook. Klink and Hogan nodded to Bürgermeister Rudolf Scheinfeld; Kurt Hausner, the head of the Town Council; Monsignor Jürgen Geisler, the pastor of the only standing church; Chief of Police Werner Krueger, and the only doctor left in Hammelburg, Ernst Bauer.

"Kommandant," Hausner greeted. "You also saw the planes?"

"They flew over the camp," Klink said, his eyes on the distant black smoke. "Do you know what happened?" He lifted the field glasses to his eyes.

Krueger nodded. "The pass is completely blocked, and the roads. As for that," he nodded at the distant plain, "it appears that a fuel or ammunition depot was hit. Frau Engel said there was a huge explosion and the fire spread from one tank to another, triggering more explosions."

Klink passed the glasses to Hogan as the others went back into the lodge.

"My God," Hogan breathed softly as he saw the burning tanks and tents. He hoped, he prayed, there was no one inside those tanks or tents. That was a nasty way to die. He lowered the glasses and looked at Klink, Klink who was too still. "You didn't do that. It was an accident."

"Was it? How many Germans did I kill today?"

"How many did you save?"

"Once, long ago, that helped lessen the pain. But now . . . " He shook his head. "Now, I find myself wondering if that alone justifies it. What makes their lives worth less than the ones who live?" He caught Hogan's worried look. "Forgive me. As you said earlier, I am tired. Of many things."

Klink turned away and walked into the warmer lodge.

_Damnit, why didn't I take him away from this mess when I had the chance?_ _Because I wasn't thinking. _Hogan glanced at the burning wreckage in the distance. _He's saved our butts. Made sure those tanks can't get to us. Made sure we're safe. How do I get him to stop doing so much? How do I get him to think of himself for a change? How?_

Hogan shook his head and followed Klink into the lodge.

Hogan walked into the middle of a conversation. Scheinfeld, Hausner, Krueger, Geisler and Bauer were sitting at a table, discussing the orders received from Berlin. None of them liked the orders, but none of them could figure a way out of them.

"With the pass and the roads gone, no one can come here," Scheinfeld said hopefully.

"They can still send a few men," Krueger said bluntly. "Not many, but enough can come and make difficulties for us."

"What's going on?" Hogan asked Klink who was warming himself at the fireplace.

"Berlin has ordered every man and boy from the age of fifteen into uniform to defend the Fatherland."

"Every man?"

Klink nodded and walked over to the seated men. And waited until they acknowledged his presence. Which they did, with some embarrassment.

"Herr Kommandant," Scheinfeld said, "please do not misunderstand us. We are all loyal — "

"Yes, we are," Klink said softly. "The question is, to which Germany? The one that murdered millions of innocents? Or the one with a culture and heritage we can be proud of?"

The men looked at each other uneasily.

"Murdered?" Hausner said after clearing his throat.

"Yes, murdered," Klink said. His eyes met each of theirs, daring them to look away. Which they did. "It has been long enough for you to have heard about the camps."

"Propaganda," Scheinfeld said less than convincingly.

"I have seen them, Herr Bürgermeister," Klink said evenly. "They exist."

Hausner appeared to collapse into his chair. "I . . . I saw something once." He shuddered. And sat straighter. And met Klink's eyes. "I will not allow my sons to defend that Germany," he said bluntly. "I will not defend that Germany."

"Nor will I," Doctor Bauer said evenly.

"Nor I," Krueger echoed emphatically. Then he smiled wanly. "Which means I should execute myself as a traitor."

"I know some men you might execute, Chief Krueger," Klink said with open amusement. "You are not one of them. Nor," his eyes swept over them, "is it anyone else here."

The men smiled slowly.

"It appears we have finally admitted where we all stand," Bauer said. "The question still remains, what do we do? Will Berlin, will Model, accept silence from us?"

"We can try," Scheinfeld said. "The telephone lines to the outside are also down."

"But radio communication is not," Krueger said. "We will hear from someone in authority."

"There is another solution," Klink said.

"What, Herr Kommandant?" Hausner asked.

"First, you must identify the diehard Nazis in town," Klink said. "Not nominal ones who joined the Party but do not support it."

"As I did," Hausner said dryly.

"As you did. But you know who is a Nazi and who still believes the lies told by Berlin. If you do not know all of them, there are others who do."

Krueger nodded. "Ja. By my count, there are no more than twenty-four, twenty-five left in this area."

"How many of them would fall under Berlin's order?"

"Not twenty. The remainder are women or too infirm to be of use."

"What about Hitler Youth members?"

Monsignor Geisler shook his head. "That I can answer. Though Herr Hausner informed the now deceased Gauleiter otherwise, Reverend Bloch, Reverend Sattler and I formed our own Christian groups for the children when the Hitler Youth was founded. In discreet defiance of the government, their parents supported us rather than the Hitler Youth. Of the boys and youths still here, none were in the Hitler Youth. And they have no love for the Nazis."

"Good. I suggest that Chief Krueger find the Nazis today, inform them of the order, and tell them that since we are now cut off, if they wish to comply with Berlin's order, they will have to leave Hammelburg immediately. Then make them leave. I have a couple of men who can accompany them."

Krueger nodded. "That would take care of any who might cause trouble. But what of the rest? All of us and most of the remaining men all included in that order. Age, disability or occupation will not exempt most of us."

"No, they will not. However, I have a solution. Since any evacuation of the camp is now out of the question, and since there is no possibility of outside help, I may need additional guards at the camp. As the highest ranking officer in the area, I can deploy those guards where I see fit."

"I see what you are suggesting, Herr Kommandant," Krueger said with a small smile. "You swear the men in, have them on your personnel roster, and release them to the town where they are needed."

Klink nodded. "They will each receive their orders from me, along with written confirmation. When the time comes, they can end the war as civilians. Or not. The choice is theirs. Berlin need only hear that their orders were followed and every man over fifteen is in the armed forces. As for the truth . . . " He shrugged. "It has been a long time since Berlin cared to hear the truth."

The mood visibly lightened among the small group.

"Then we are agreed?" Hausner asked. "The Nazis are to be told to leave, which, as loyal Nazis, they will do. The rest of us will join the Kommandant's command."

"Agreed," said Scheinfeld, and heard it echoed by the other men.

"Then," Hausner said as he stood, "we are finished here. We all have work to do. Danke, Herr Kommandant." Hausner bowed. "We are again in your debt."

Klink shook his head. "We have distrusted each other as Germans long enough. It is past the time to begin working together. For all our sakes."

Hausner nodded and took his leave, as did the other men, leaving Klink and Hogan in the comfortable room.

Frau Engel hurried over to them. "Would you like anything to eat or drink, Herr Kommandant? Oberst Hogan?"

"Nein, danke," Klink said. "It is time we returned to camp."

Frau Engel nodded. "Please come again."

Klink smiled faintly. "Perhaps after the war. It is beautiful up here."

She smiled for a moment before anxiety crossed her face. "Perhaps next time there will be green fields to see instead of burning tanks." Her lips trembled and she left abruptly.

"Her husband is in the Panzers," Klink said quietly as Hogan looked after her in surprise.

"I hope he's not down there."

"No, he's in a worse place — the Eastern Front. She may never see him again."

Hogan shook his head in sympathy as he followed Klink out of the lodge.

...

Back at camp, Hogan was nearly mobbed by the officers and his men as he got out of Klink's car.

"Colonel, we need to talk," Witton said grimly.

Hogan glanced at Klink, who nodded at him and walked toward his quarters.

"What's up?" Hogan asked.

"Colonel, you're going to have to speed up the timetable for talking to the barracks leaders," Witton said. "Word is already going around the camp, and some of the men are using it as an excuse to pick on the guards."

"Damn! Okay, round up all the barracks leaders and everyone who'd heard the Stage. Get them to the mess hall in half an hour. I'll tell Klink."

The men scattered and Hogan walked over to Klink's quarters. He nearly bumped into Langenscheidt who was heading the same way.

"Is something wrong, Colonel Hogan?" Langenscheidt asked.

"Yeah," he said curtly, and opened the door after a perfunctory knock.

Klink, hanging his overcoat on the rack, looked at Hogan with surprise. And asked after seeing his expression, "What's wrong?"

"The news about the camps is getting around faster than I thought. I'm meeting with the barracks leaders in less than half an hour."

Klink nodded. "I wish I could say I was surprised. But I'm not."

"It might get nasty."

"I know. My men have been warned. Good luck."

"To both of us."

Hogan left, leaving Langenscheidt staring after him in confusion.

Then Langenscheidt turned to look at Klink. Klink, who said softly, "I never answered your question earlier."

"N-no, H-herr Kommandant."

"Do I frighten you so much, Sergeant?"

"Everything frightens me, Herr Kommandant. The news about the camps, the news about the war." He shrugged helplessly. "Perhaps it would have been better if you had not kept me here. Then I would not be thinking so many things I wish I did not think." And he stopped, confused by what he'd said, and confused by Klink's smile.

"But who would have helped me two days ago?"

"Someone else . . . Sergeant Schultz."

"I already have a use for Sergeant Schultz. I need you as well."

Langenscheidt looked at him for long minutes, his expression gradually turning more resolute. "Who are you?" he asked in an unfamiliarly firm voice.

Klink shook his head. "I will not burden you with that name, Sergeant. Just believe that I am a tired man who has fought the Nazis for too many years."

Langenscheidt nodded. "So Sergeant Schultz said. But today . . . You knew about those jets. You knew Allied pilots flew them. You knew what their targets would be . . . You arranged for those planes to destroy the roads."

"Yes, I did. It was the only way to keep this camp safe, and Hammelburg, and the people in the surrounding countryside."

"Why do you care about this camp? The area?"

"I have spent nearly five years of my life in this camp, Sergeant. Five insane years — the longest I have ever spent in one place since I joined the military. I have grown comfortable with the people, the camp. And I have found friends here. More, the prisoners, the guards, are my responsibility. I had the power to keep them safe. And I used it."

"How many died in the bombings?"

Klink shook his head wearily. "One is too many. I know more than one died."

"And you killed Danziger."

Klink nodded. And turned away.

"I . . . I killed someone once . . . I did not want to," Langenscheidt whispered. "He ordered me to kill prisoners . . . I told him to take back the order. He wouldn't . . . And he died."

"I'm sorry," Klink said quietly, turning back to him.

"I see him in my dreams, Herr Kommandant. I don't want to. I want to forget him. I don't want to know I killed him." His eyes teared. "How do I forget, Herr Kommandant? How?"

Klink shook his head. "You don't want to forget. When you do, when you stop remembering that it hurts to take a life, then . . . then it becomes easy to kill. And when it becomes easy . . . " His eyes grew distant. "That's what happened in the camps. It became easy to kill. And it became easy to justify the killing." He shook his head. "No, my young friend. Killing should never be easy, should never be forgotten."

"But it hurts!"

Klink walked closer. "I know. But . . . Did you have a choice? What would have happened if you did not kill him?"

"He would have killed me," Langenscheidt whispered. "He would have killed the prisoners."

"Then you saved the prisoners' lives. Good came out of his death. Accept that, Karl Langenscheidt. Hold tight to that truth. As I hold tight to the truth that the deaths I am responsible for are a good for others. Sometimes that thought alone gives me the strength to go on for one more day."

"I will try, Herr Kommandant."

Klink nodded and touched his shoulder with a fatherly gesture. "I am very glad I was able to keep you here, Karl Langenscheidt. You have done well. And you are a caring human being. Germany will have need of men like you after the war."

Langenscheidt flushed with embarrassment and pride. "Danke, Herr Kommandant. I, too, am glad I was able to stay."

"Good. Return to your post, Sergeant. I fear the men will need you soon."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

With an uncertain smile and a salute, Langenscheidt left.

_At least I was able to relieve his mind. If he is lucky, he will never have to see death again. As for me . . . _

Klink rubbed his tired eyes, and straightened. _As for me, I still have a camp to run. _

He walked toward the inner door to his office.


	20. Chapter 20

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 20

It was a loud, vocal group that awaited Hogan in the mess hall. And the loudest were Sergeants Chaykin and Yeager. But when they saw Hogan, the men grew quiet. So quiet that Hogan found himself longing for the noise. And longing to be away from the camp. Someplace peaceful. Someplace where he didn't have an aching arm or angry men staring at him. And he wondered where Tahiti was. It sure wasn't here!

The silence was complete by the time Hogan reached the front of the mess hall. There was no way to soften the truth about the camps. All he could do was tell them. Tell them the way the Stage had told it, and hope for the best.

A deep breath to steady his voice, and Hogan began with the Stage's words, "For years, you've been fighting . . . "

There was a brooding silence when he finished. A very long silence. A silence that was beginning to make Hogan and some of the others uneasy. A silence that he wanted desperately to break and knew he couldn't.

Finally, it was broken by a whispering voice, "So, it is true. I thought it was just . . . " The man shuddered.

"Why are you surprised?" Chaykin scoffed. "We're surrounded by these stink . . . "

The rest was drowned out by the hue and cry that Hogan had expected. One small group was agreeing with Chaykin; another was lambasting him. Yet a third was trying to keep peace between the two sides.

The uproar was making Hogan's splitting head ache even more. So, he ended the noise the only way he could. He grabbed a large pot and hurled it against the wall. The clatter startled and quieted the arguing men.

"That's better," Hogan said, rubbing his aching arm. "Your barracks' mates have probably heard something by now. So, you'll need to tell them about the concentration camps. But you also need to tell them a few other things.

"One, the news about the camps came from a German. A German who'd been fighting the Nazis at least twice as long as any of us. He didn't need to tell us about the camps."

"Saving his butt," Yeager sneered.

Hogan, just, held on to his temper. "Two, those atrocities were caused by some Germans, not all, not even most Germans. Definitely not the ones in this camp or this area.

"Three, a good number of those killed were German. Killed because they were fighting Hitler, or because they were suspected of opposing Hitler. Or because they were in the wrong place, or were the wrong race or the wrong religion.

"And there's one other thing you can tell them . . . Those planes that flew over this morning. They were Messerschmitt jets. And they were flown by American pilots."

"What?" from several voices.

"You're crazy," came Yeager's voice.

Hogan's eyes fastened on him. "Would you care to repeat that, Sergeant? I didn't quite hear you."

Yeager cleared his voice. "I mean that's crazy. Sir. How could Americans be flyin' those jets?"

"They were flying them because a resistance leader, specifically the Stage, asked them to," Hogan said, his eyes staying on Yeager, seeing the look of disbelief on Yeager's face. "He'd asked for a bombing run on the pass and the roads east of here."

"Why, sir?" came a voice from the left.

"He called it payment for services rendered." Most of the men smiled faintly. And Hogan managed a small smile as well. "What it means is that Burkhalter can't evacuate the camp — "

"Evacuate!" from Morrison near the front.

Hogan nodded. "That's what they do to the camps in the way of the fighting. Evacuate them and send the men further into Germany. That's how we got those three hundred men a few weeks ago. But with the roads and pass gone, an evacuation is out. And it also keeps the fighting from backing into here when the Allies do get close."

"So, we're cut off," said another voice near the back.

Hogan nodded. "Yeah. And we're safe. So is the town."

"And a kraut planned that?" Chaykin said with disbelief.

Hogan had to count to ten before he could say evenly, "Yes, the Stage planned that." But he knew that Chaykin and Yeager and a couple of others didn't believe him. "Tell your men that as well. Which means the odds of living to see the end of the war just got a whole lot better for all of us." His eyes swept the assembly. "Any questions?"

Silence was the reply.

He straightened. "Then that's it, gentlemen. Dismissed."

Slowly, talking less angrily, most of them anyway, the men began leaving.

Witton and the other officers walked over to Hogan.

"Do you think it'll work, Colonel?" Martin asked.

Hogan looked at him soberly. "The truth, no. There are gonna be angry men out there. And I can't blame them; I'm angry too. But so is Klink, and Schultz, and Gruber, and the town." He shook his head tiredly. "Start circulating, gentlemen. If anyone's making trouble, I want it stopped immediately. And if it gets nasty, I want to know about it immediately."

"Yes, sir's" sounded from the officers and they also left.

Hogan sighed inwardly. It was going to be a long day.

The news about the concentration camps and the deaths of millions spread like wildfire in the congested camp. Many couldn't believe it. Then some of the new arrivals, some of the still gaunt men, started talking about what they'd seen and heard in other places. Some talked of airmen who had been shot down and taken not to a POW camp, but instead to a camp called Buchenwald where they'd been beaten and starved and saw others killed for no reason. Others talked about POWs they'd known who'd arrived from a place called Dachau in even worse shape than they'd been when they showed up at Stalag 13. And the stories about those places, and the fact that a few POWs were in them, also made the rounds of the overcrowded stalag.

As Hogan and Klink had feared, despite the efforts of the officers and most of the barracks leaders, some of the anger about the concentration camps spilled over onto the guards. Sometimes it was belligerent heckling; sometimes it was deliberately blocking the way of the off-duty guards; a few times, there were shoving incidents.

After an incident involving one of the amputee guards, Hogan knew he had to confront the issue or else Klink would have to. And Hogan knew that would further exacerbate the tensions in the camp. So, he called another meeting with all the officers and barracks leaders in the mess hall after the second meal.

"All right, everyone settle down," Witton said in a loud voice.

The noisy murmur of voices began to quiet as the men looked at Hogan.

Hogan's eyes swept the room. The officers nodded at him encouragingly. Most of the barracks leaders who'd been there awhile also looked at him without animosity. But there were a few who looked at him with less than friendly eyes. Especially Sergeants Virgil Yeager and Clarence Chaykin.

"Thanks for coming," Hogan said, and heard a soft snortcoming the group where Yeager and Chaykin sat. Hogan's eyes narrowed. "Is there a problem?" he asked, his eyes fastened on Yeager.

"Problem? No, no problem," Yeager said with a humorless smile. "Sir," he added as an afterthought.

"Good," Hogan said. "Because we've got enough problems to deal with." He straightened and looked at the men before him soberly. "I know the news of the concentration camps shocked everybody. And there's nothing I can say that would ease the horror or anger we're all feeling. At the same time, we'd better get our act together. Whatever atrocities happened in other camps, concentration or POW, those things didn't happen here. The Germans here, guards and civilians, didn't commit those atrocities and didn't mistreat anyone. You need to remind the men in your barracks of that."

"What about Martinelli?" Chaykin asked belligerently. "Sir."

Most of the others looked at him uneasily as Hogan stiffened. "What about him, Chaykin?"

"He's dead."

"Yes, he is," Hogan said evenly. "The SS killed him."

"On Klink's orders."

Hogan's eyes narrowed as loud mutterings arose from the others who'd witnessed Martinelli's death.

"You're daft, mate," RAF Sergeant MacKay said loudly.

"Am I?" Chaykin said. "The SS just happened to be there?"

"They were watching the camp," Hogan said. "Had been ever since Martinelli arrived. Martinelli had made himself unpopular with his escapes. And they were just waiting for an excuse to get him."

"And Klink gave them one," Chaykin sneered. "And," he walked closer, "You thought so too. Once. Sir."

"I made a mistake," Hogan said quietly.

"Did you? Sir. Seems to some of us that Klink's no better than any other kraut we've heard about."

"That's funny coming from you," Hogan said, cutting into the pending argument. "Or have you forgotten that he let you and your cohorts out of the cooler early after the trouble(1) you caused before Christmas?"

Chaykin's eyes flitted to Kinch and Red Hand.

Hogan smiled humorlessly. "Don't bother looking at them, Chaykin. They didn't tell me. Klink treated you a hell of a lot more generously than I was feeling when I found out. But I wouldn't count on his generosity now. Not if your guys start picking on his men. So, I'm warning you right now. Any more trouble and you won't have to worry about Klink putting you in the cooler; I'll do it myself." His eyes bored into Chaykin's and Yeager's. "Is that understood? I said, is that understood?"

Sullen, "Yes, sirs" sounded from the two.

"Good. Now, go back to your barracks and tell the rest of your bunkmates. No more trouble with the guards or any other German in or near this camp. Dismissed."

Slowly, talking in undertones, the men dispersed. Witton waited until most had left before walking up to Hogan.

Hogan glanced at Witton. "Is there a problem, Captain?"

Witton met his eyes frankly. "I hope not, Colonel. Oh, don't get me wrong, sir. The incidents had to stop. You're right; Klink couldn't ignore them if they continued. But . . . "

"But?"

"I don't think this going to make you popular with the ones that Chaykin and Yeager represent."

"This isn't a popularity contest, Captain."

"I know, Colonel. And the truth is I'm not sure how else to handle it. It isn't as if you can transfer them to another camp if they do make trouble."

Hogan smiled humorlessly. "At least not any more."

"Sir?"

"We've had troublemakers before," Hogan admitted. "And I talked Klink into getting rid of them by sending them to other camps. But as you said, can't do it now."

"Sir, there is another option they might take."

"Escape? I've thought of that. And I'm just mad enough to let them. But anyone with half a brain can see that's not doable any more. We're surrounded by the Fifth Panzer Army. There's no place for them to go. So, like it or not, we're stuck with them."

Witton shook his head and left.

...

"Clarence, you're crazy," Yeager was saying as they walked back to their barracks. "Where would you escape to?"

"I don't know, Virgil. Anywhere's better than . . . "

"Yeah, like a grave. Nice and quiet. There's a whole kraut army out there. We're stuck here for the duration. But," he grinned suddenly, "we just added another mark against Hogan's name. When our boys get here, Hogan's gonna need every bit of his Irish tongue to keep from getting busted to private. As for Klink, he's got the others believin' he's a good kraut. Ain't no such animal. Too bad that assassin didn't take care of Klink when he had the chance." Yeager shrugged. "After the Allies move into this place, after Hogan's kicked out, Klink'll get his. And after we're through with him, he'll wish he'd never been born. Assumin' he's still breathin', that is," he added with a grin. A grin that Chaykin returned.

...

"Colonel." Kinch and Red Hand walked over to him.

Hogan waited.

"How did you find out?" Kinch finally asked.

Hogan shook his head. "Overheard Gruber and Schultz talking about it New Year's Day."

"Maybe I should have told you, Colonel," Kinch said evenly. "But you had enough to deal with back then. It was taken care of, and nobody got hurt."

"Nobody?" Hogan managed a small smile. "Chaykin's puss was ugly enough before, but with those missing teeth . . . " He shook his head and looked at Kinch and Red Hand. "I guess I've been a bit blind about what did go on here sometimes. I got used to all of us working for the same goals, the end of the war, making the world safe for democracy, the good old USA, that kind of thing. I didn't stop to think that the good old USA for me might not be the same USA for Negroes or Indians. Or even people like Chaykin and Yeager." He shook his head. "It was much easier when it was just us against the Germans." A faint smile. "I guess even colonels have a few things to learn."

Kinch smiled faintly. "Thank you, sir."

Hogan shook his head. "Nothing to thank. Now, get out there and keep the lid on things." His expression turned far too serious. "We can't afford to have the camp blow up now."

"No, sir," Kinch said, and he and Red Hand left, the door closing behind them.

Hogan looked around the now empty mess hall. Unconsciously, his hand started to lift to his sore foreman. And he caught himself and lowered his hand to his side. He looked around again, taking in the rough wooden tables, the even rougher drafty walls. Odd, he was feeling almost nostalgic about the place. God knew why! He'd hated the place when he first got here. And he still hated the place. Of that, he was certain. So, why did it suddenly feel like home to him? More a home than the one he'd grown up in?

He sat on the table behind him. Maybe because for the first time in a long time, he felt part of a family. Not a blood family, but maybe one even stronger. Newkirk, LeBeau, Kinch, Carter and finally Baker had become a surrogate family to him. Not brothers exactly, more like cousins who were friends. Good friends.

And they weren't the only ones. Schultz, good old Schultz, was the uncle every kid should have — funny, good natured and caring

Hogan had been really close to one other person in his life, his boyhood friend, Timothy Sonntag, the American-born German kid from the large family next door.(2) He and Timothy had fun. But, in many ways, they were also rivals. And then they drifted apart for awhile. And Timothy had died, or so he'd thought. Well, it turned out he didn't die, and Hogan hoped to God that Timothy, who now went by the name of Mike Anders, would survive the war. They had a lot of catching up to do.

But even that friendship didn't have the depth of his friendship with Wilhelm Klink. The friendship that should never have been. Sometimes, he still couldn't believe it existed, that it was real. But it was.

And sometimes it scared him. He hadn't wanted to find friendship here. He'd been leery of it, even with his men. For the simple reason that it hurt when it ended. He'd found that out when Timothy died, or when a friend turned out not to be. And the odds had been that he'd lose at least one of his men thanks to his sabotage operations.

Well, he hadn't. And now, with the end so close, with the sabotage missions ended, they should all survive to the end of the war.

The end of the war. He sighed inwardly. He could finally see an end. And then what?

They'd go their separate ways — that's what. Different men, bound together by a common goal. Bound together by their need of each other. And once that goal, that need, was over, they'd drift apart. And he didn't want that. But how could he prevent it?

_By doing something about it, Bobby-boy_, he could hear his late father saying. _Assuming you're not afraid to._

_Afraid? Why should I be afraid? I've outwitted some of the biggest brains in Germany. I've bluffed the Gestapo, the SS, the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe. I took a penny-ante operation and made it something important._

He smiled mockingly at himself. _And_ _I had a lot of luck and help doing it. A whole lot of luck and a whole lot of help. From people I knew and people I'll never know. And especially from . . . _

_I've grown up here, haven't I? I've finally learned I need other people, and that I need to rely on other people. I don't want to lose what I've found here. It won't be easy keeping track of those guys. But I'll make sure I do it. And make sure they do it too. _

Then there was Wilhelm Klink. What would happen to Klink when the war ended? And the friendship, the brotherhood, that had developed between them? Could they maintain that relationship when it was finally over? _You and me, to the end, _he'd promised. The end was almost here. And he'd be back in the States, and Klink would be here in a devastated Germany.

No. He wasn't ready for that. He didn't want to leave that fast. Not until he knew that Klink had a home, had safety, after the war. Not until he knew that the closeness Klink and he had found in this unlikely place would survive past the end of the war.

And he found himself wondering if there was a way to stay in Germany after the war ended.

* * *

1 Mel Hughes: _Dress Rehearsal 2: Encore_

2 Mel Hughes: _Dress Rehearsal_


	21. Chapter 21

Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 21

An uneasy truce settled on the camp. Some of the heckling continued, but there were no more physical incidents involving the guards. And for that, almost everyone was grateful.

The next morning, Klink got a call from Chief Krueger. Eighteen Nazi supporters were joining the Wehrmacht and needed to be sworn in. And needed to be escorted to the nearest Wehrmacht unit. Which was no problem at all. As Klink had expected, Schuster and Wendorf from the morning shift and Thalheimer from the evening shift offered to accompany the volunteers. Another eight guards volunteered to go with them and join the fighting.

So, shortly before noon, Klink was on the top floor of the Hauserhof Hotel, which now functioned as the Rathaus, swearing in the men. And shortly afterwards, the eleven Wehrmacht guards and the eighteen newly inducted soldiers were following a couple of high pass residents down a steep trail to the valley below.

"Good riddance to them," Krueger said under his breath as he saw them start on the trail.

Monsignor Geisler was more charitable. "They may never return, Herr Krueger."

Krueger harrumphed loudly. "With all the trouble they've caused, I hope not. Excuse me, Monsignor; I am not as forgiving as you."

"We will all need forgiving in the future, Herr Krueger," reminded Geisler. "Perhaps we should practice it ourselves."

Krueger had the grace to keep silent, but the expression on his face was far from acquiescent.

That afternoon, the remaining men and boys in Hammelburg and the surrounding countryside gathered in the church to swear their oath of loyalty. Not, as some of them had feared, the oath to Adolf Hitler. Instead, Klink had substituted it with the oath he'd sworn years before to the Germany he still loved. An oath that none of the men and boys had trouble taking.

After the oath-taking, Gruber and Schultz handed each man and boy their individual orders, orders which told them to serve Hammelburg and Germany the same way they had throughout the war.

"Well, that's over," Scheinfeld said with relief.

"For now," said the more pessimistic Hausner as the remaining male population of Hammelburg left the church. "I find myself wondering what we do now."

"We carry on," Scheinfeld said.

Krueger shook his head. "I think we need to do more than that. The Allies will be coming here in time, even if the Panzers do not."

Klink, overhearing, agreed with him. "I suggest you assemble the Town Council. You have two vacancies that need to be filled. And it might be wise to consider what to do when the Allies arrive. Or before the Allies arrive."

"Are the Allies that close?" Bauer asked.

Klink looked at him soberly. "Perhaps, here, they might be. Guten Tag, meine Herren."

The five men looked after him with puzzled expressions.

"Now what the devil does that mean?" Krueger asked.

Bauer looked thoughtful. "We will find out soon enough. But his suggestion is a good one. We do need to make plans."

Hausner nodded. "Agreed. Tomorrow morning — is nine all right with everyone?" They nodded. "Good. We will assemble the Council and talk. Until then, meine Herren."

...

The camp finally settled down from the excitement of the past few days. Or so Hogan thought. Until . . .

"Colonel." Kinch came up from the tunnel after dinner. "Message from the Underground. There's a small plane coming in at 2100. It'll land in the field," his finger pointed on the map, "here."

"What's the mission?"

"Just said there are two people in it, and they'll fill us in."

"Okay. LeBeau, Carter, you go meet them." He glanced at his watch. "You'll get there just in time."

"Yes, sir," Carter said as they headed toward the ladder, following Kinch into the tunnels.

"Company now, sir?" Baker asked.

Hogan shrugged and winced as he pulled his arm. "We'll find out soon enough."

...

Carter came down the tunnel first, wearing a smile big enough to split his face.

"What are you so happy about?" Hogan asked with irritation; his arm was sore again. "Did you pick up the passengers?"

"Yes, sir." Carter continued his silly grin.

"And?" Hogan demanded.

"Haven't changed a bit, have you?" said a loud cheerful voice.

Hogan's face went through a variety of emotions — surprise, disbelief, then joy. "Mike? Mike!"

He nearly ran to greet the tall, blond man with the infectious grin. Forgetting his arm, he grabbed Mike's arms tightly. And let go just as fast as an unexpected pang shot down his arm, and he winced. "Sorry, bum arm at the moment."

Mike smiled ruefully. "To match my bum leg." He tapped his right leg. "Still not a hundred percent."

"How have you been? I'm glad you're in one piece."

"It's a miracle I am," Mike said with less enthusiasm. "The OSS had given me up for dead last year. I was caught in the battles on the eastern front. Let's just say it hasn't been the best year of my life."

"I know the feeling," Hogan murmured.

"Uh, Colonel," LeBeau interrupted. "There's someone else to see you."

"Who?"

Hogan found himself in an embrace with a warm, soft body and lips that kissed him heartily. After a few moments of delight, and Mike's less than pleased voice saying, "Hey, you're supposed to be my wife!", Hogan pulled back to look at the girl he held. "Helga?"

"Surprise!" Helga Teitelmann, Klink's first secretary, said with a smile. She snuggled closer. "You kiss as well as ever, Colonel."

"I try to keep in practice."

"You." Helga pulled away from him. "I know you do."

Hogan pulled her closer, ignoring the pain in his arm. "I missed you."

"I doubt that," she said tartly. And then smiled. "But it is nice to see you again."

"How did you hook up with this reprobate?"

Mike put a possessive arm around Helga's shoulders and pulled her away from Hogan. Helga, amused by the rivalry between the two men, stepped away from both of them.

"After I left here in May of 1943 to visit my aunt in Berlin," she said, perching on a stool, "and saw the horrible things that were going on, I knew I had to help the Resistance."

"You could have helped here," Hogan protested. "Hell, you closed your eyes to a whole lot of things."

"Ja. But at the time, I didn't realize just how much went on. Besides, I thought I could be more useful in Berlin. And I was," she added smugly.

"Which is why she's with me," Mike said more seriously. "Her people decided she was in danger, so they got her to Leipzig. When I needed to leave Germany, they figured a married couple would stand a better chance with the cover they set up."

"You're married to this bum?" Hogan shook his head in sympathy. "Poor girl."

"Only on paper, as I keep telling him."

"Okay." Mike got down to business. "Where's this package we're supposed to pick up and take to Switzerland?"

Hogan shook his head. "Don't have a clue."

Mike stared at him. "You don't? Didn't you arrange this trip?"

Hogan started to shake his head and was interrupted by a dry voice saying, "He didn't; I did."

Mike and Helga turned to stare at the tall, lean man in the Luftwaffe uniform.

"Kommandant Klink," Helga said weakly.

"Fräulein Helga," Klink said as he walked over. "You are looking well."

"Uh, danke, Herr Kommandant," she said with confusion. "I, uh . . . " She looked at Hogan uncertainly.

"Kommandant, this is Mike Anders, an old friend," Hogan said. "Mike, this is Kommandant Klink."

"Herr Anders," Klink greeted with a nod.

Anders had lost his smile. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

"It's a long, long story," Hogan began.

"Which he doesn't have time to tell," Klink said smoothly. "I am sorry to interrupt the reunion, but you are on a tight schedule. You have a map to give me?" Klink held out his hand.

"Not you. I was told to give it to one person only," Mike said in an unexpectedly harsh voice.

"Yes, yes, yes," Klink said impatiently. "'Let our alliance be combin'd, our best friends made, our means stretch'd; and let us presently go sit in council'. And your response is, 'covert matters may be best disclose'd, and open perils surest answered'.(1)"

Mike reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a map. "I still don't believe it," he murmured to Hogan as Klink opened the map and laid it on the table.

"Corporal LeBeau," Klink said, "please bring Binyamin down here. And tell Sergeant Wilson you need enough bandages to wrap broken ribs. Sergeant Carter, Schultz is in my quarters. Tell him I need my kit and please bring it down to me. And Corporal Newkirk, if you could find a civilian shirt and coat that would fit Binyamin?"

"Yes, sirs," echoed in the room and the men scattered.

Klink pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and picked up apencil. "Listen carefully. You must follow the flight plan exactly. If you do not, you will probably die." Klink bent over the map; Anders did as well. "You will take off at precisely midnight."

Mike checked his watch. "Doesn't give us much time."

"I know," Klink said. "While your plane has Red Cross markings, that is not a guarantee of safe conduct. However, both sides have been told to watch for a Red Cross plane that is carrying important Swiss personnel to Switzerland."

Anders stared at him. "Both sides?"

"Yes. Pay attention, please. You will take this heading, down to this point, just north of Köln(2). Then you will take this heading west." He scribbled it on the map. "This will be the most dangerous portion of the trip. The space between Köln and Aachen is in flux. You will broadcast your position to both sides using these frequencies." Another note on the map. "While I cannot guarantee that there won't be any trigger-happy soldiers on either side, their commanders have been told to cooperate with you. Hopefully, the danger zone won't last for more than half an hour. Once you are safely in Allied space, you will proceed to a small airfield near Liege. Here." He circled it on themap. "They are expecting you and they will refuel your plane. Fromthere, you will fly over Belgium, Luxembourg, and France, using this route." He traced it on the map. "Finally, you will reach Swiss territory. You will land in Basel where representatives of Baroness Mathilde Dietrich will meet you. The Baroness is highly influential, so no one will interfere with you." He pulled a packet from his jacket. "This is the paperwork you will need in Basel. Do not let it out of your hands."

There was a sound in the adjacent tunnel. "This is unbelievable," Binyamin's voice said. "You men did all of this?"

"In eight months," LeBeau said with pride.

"Amazing." Binyamin stepped into the radio room as Carter appeared with a bread-size box. "Wilhelm." Binyamin smiled at him. "What is going on?"

Klink straightened and looked at his friend. "It is timefor you to leave," he said gently.

"Was? Nein, there is no need."

"Yes, there is," Klink continued in the same gentle voice. "You are not one of the POWs; you have no legal standing here. And," his voice dropped, "your family is waiting for you."

Binyamin paled. "My family? They live?"

"Your parents, Rudolf and your nephew — yes, they live."

Emotion twisted his face. "I did not dare hope." Tears made their way down his cheeks. "I thought . . . " He turned away.

Klink turned back to the map, emotion tightening his voice. "Are the instructions clear?"

Anders nodded soberly. "Yes. But how do I get out of Switzerland?"

"You can arrange that with Allen Dulles(3); I believe he's in Berne." Klink picked up the map and handed it to a surprised Anders. "Before you leave, there is something else that must be done. Sergeant Carter, the kit, please."

Carter came over and put the box on the table. Klink opened it. It was a makeup kit worthy of a Hollywood master.

"Binyamin," Klink said gently. "There is not much time, and this must be done."

Binyamin straightened and blew his nose. "Jawohl." But tears still shimmered in his eyes as he turned back to Klink.

"Sit here, bitte." Klink pointed to a stool. Binyamin complied.

"What are you doing?" Hogan asked.

"A precaution. Binyamin, please remove your shirt." Klink was opening small jars of makeup. He looked at Binyamin's tattooed arm appraisingly. He picked up a small jar and a brush. Using the brush, he lightly spread the makeup over the tattoo. He picked up another jar and began blending the makeup.

"Where did you learn that?" Hogan asked.

"I spent part of my misspent youth in theaters," Klink said, still working on getting the right mix of flesh tones. "Be careful using the arm; it will rub off if you use it too much. That should do it." He put the jars back in the kit and looked at LeBeau. "Where are the bandages?"

"Sergeant Wilson said he had to get them out of some boxes," LeBeau said uncomfortably. "He'll bring them down."

"He'll what?" Hogan began. "Carter, stop him before he — "

"Sorry, Colonel," Wilson said from the entrance. "Didn't know I . . . " He cleared his throat as he saw Klink. "I guess I'm not supposed to be here."

"Too late for that," Hogan said with annoyance. "Sorry, Kommandant."

Klink waved a negligent hand. "The bandages, please."

Wilson walked over with the bandages. "What are you doing, sir?"

"Herr Stein was caught in an Allied bombing," Klink said pedantically. "And his ribs have been broken. He is returning home to Switzerland to recuperate."

Wilson shrugged. "Sounds good to me." He handed the bandages to Klink. Then he noticed the others in the room. "Anders! Helga." A grin. "A night of surprises."

"I'll say," Anders murmured and turned to Hogan. "I was gonna ask when you recruited him, but given that he knows what's going on and you don't, maybe I should ask when he recruited you."

Hogan shook his head. "More complicated than that. How did you get here?"

"I called Teppel for help when I got to Berlin." A rueful smile. "I thought he went rogue on me. I was picked up by an SS colonel who turned out to be working for the Stage. Though how the hell Teppel knew how to contact the Stage . . . " His voice faded as he looked at Hogan, then at Klink. "Oh, my God," he whispered.

"I told you it was complicated," Hogan murmured.

"You're moving in exalted circles, Robert." He watched as Klink finished with the bandages.

"I am sorry for the discomfort," Klink was saying. "But if you are seen, they must think you have broken ribs."

"I will be fine," Binyamin said, starting to get up.

"No, there is more." Klink turned back to the kit, taking out a small bottle and another brush. "This will lighten your hair." He dipped the brush into the jar. Using the brush, he added blondish highlights to Binyamin's black hair. "It will take severalwashings, but it does come out. And the final step." He turned back to the kit and replaced the bottle and brush. Then he took out a small case and opened it.

"Contact lenses!" Anders exclaimed.

"Stolen from a lens-maker. Very useful." He turned back to Binyamin. "Your eyes are too dark to change completely, but they can be made lighter. They will take a little getting used to. Tilt your head up and look at the light." Klink carefully inserted the lenses into Binyamin's eyes. "How do they feel?"

"Strange, but not painful."

"Do not rub your eyes while wearing the lenses; they can damage your eyes. Fraulein Helga," he took a tiny bottle from the kit, "if his eyes become dry or the lenses become uncomfortable, put a couple of drops into his eyes." He handed her the bottle.

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

"Corporal Newkirk has a different shirt for you. If you please, Corporal," Klink said, placing the case and the other items back in the kit. "I'll leave this down here, if you don't mind."

"Fine with me," Hogan said. "Newkirk, put in the wardrobe room when we're finished, will you?"

"Right, sir."

"I believe that is everything," Klink said, glancing at his watch. "It is time you left.

"Wilhelm," Binyamin said in an emotion-filled voice, "come with us. Bitte."

Klink shook his head slowly. "It is not yet over."

"But soon it will be. Colonel Hogan," he appealed.

Hogan shook his head. "He won't listen to me."

"You are tired; you have done enough!" Binyamin persisted.

"Binyamin." Klink touched his arms gently. "I will leave when it is time, and not before."

Binyamin lifted his hands to Klink's arms. "Promise me you will stay safe."

Klink smiled faintly. "I promise you I will try."

Binyamin hugged him fiercely. "Then," he said softly, and added more words in Hebrew, words that the others knew were a prayer. At the end, LeBeau's soft voice said, "Amen."

"Amen," echoed the others.

"Amen," Klink whispered. "Go quickly."

Binyamin nodded and stepped away, fighting back tears. "Danke, Colonel Hogan. If your men had not found me, I would not be alive."

Hogan smiled faintly. "Don't mention it; saving people is our specialty. LeBeau, Carter, take 'em back to the plane."

"Yes, sir," Carter said. "If you'll follow me."

With a backward glance at Klink, Binyamin followed.

Anders threw an arm around Hogan's shoulder. "Buy you a drink when you get to London."

Hogan smiled. "Take care, Mike."

"Sir," Anders walked over to Klink, "thank you. I owe you my life."

Klink shook his head. "Deliver Binyamin safely to Basel."

"I will, sir." He shook Klink's hand. "I hope to see you again in a safer world." He bowed slightly.

Helga was saying her own fervent goodbye to Hogan. "Will I see you again?"

"That depends," Hogan said with a smile. "Send your telephone number when you get settled."

Helga laughed and kissed him again. "Auf Wiedersehen, Colonel." Then she walked over to Klink and looked up at him soberly.

"Auf Wiedersehen, Fräulein ," Klink said with a slight bow.

"I thought I understood men, Herr Kommandant." She shook her head. "I was very wrong." She stepped closer to him and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Auf Wiedersehen." Then, to his surprise, she kissed him more fully. She ended the kiss slowly, almost reluctantly. "Stay safe, Kommandant."

He stepped away from her and nodded. "Auf Wiedersehen, Fraulein."

She smiled in farewell and left, followed by a grinning Anders.

Slowly, the others drifted away. Wilson, with a nod goodbye, went back down the tunnel. Baker, manning the radio, settled himself on a stool, a book in his hand. Kinch and Newkirk headed up the ladder to their barracks.

Hogan joined Klink who was still looking down the tunnel. "Why didn't you go with them?"

"The plane isn't big enough."

"I'm serious," Hogan persisted.

Klink was silent as he began walking down the tunnel to the entrance to his quarters. "Why didn't you leave when you had the chance?"

"And leave Crittendon in charge? No way."

"If he weren't in charge, or earlier this year?"

"I have a job," Hogan began. "No. I have a responsibility to these men. They believed in me. They followed me when they had no reason to. I owe it to them to stick it out."

"That's as good an answer as I can give you."

"But it's different for you. You can run your operation from any place; it doesn't have to be here. How many people would know that you aren't in Germany?"

"I would know," Klink said softly and left.

A couple of days later, Hogan received a message that the plane had reached Basel safely. Binyamin had been reunited with his happily stunned family; Anders was in London, as was Helga.

At Stalag 13, the routine of the last few weeks continued, the men wondering when the Allies would appear. Surely, it was just a matter of time . . .

...

March 1 — The U.S. Ninth Army and First Canadian Army force the Panzer Lehr Division out of Mönchengladbach. Various units of the Allied armies continue their advance toward the Rhine.

March 2 — The Allied armies reach the Rhine, north and south of Düsseldorf. The 83rd Division captures Neuss, across the Rhine from Düsseldorf.

March 3 — The Germans on the west bank of the Rhine begin withdrawing. Hodge's First Army captures Krefeld, northwest of Düsseldorf.

March 4 — The U.S. First Army crosses the Erft River, advancing on Cologne.

And the war continued its relentless march toward Stalag Luft 13 . . .

* * *

1 William Shakespeare: _Julius Caesar_, Act 4, Scene 1

2 Known as Cologne in English.

3 Allen Dulles, officially a member of the U.S. embassy in Berne. His real role was as an OSS operative who had a number of important contacts with the German Resistance. In 1953, he became the first civilian director of the CIA.


End file.
